IMAGE  EVALUATION 
TEST  TARGET  (MT-3) 


1.0 


I.I 


1.25 


■IS 


1^  m 


^=  1^  1^ 


It    im 


1.8 


U    111.6 


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Photographic 

Sdences 

Corporation 


23  WEST  MAIN  STREET 

WEBSTER,  N.Y.  14580 

(716)  873-4503 


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CIHM/ICMH 

Microfiche 

Series. 


CIHIVI/ICIVIH 
Collection  de 
microfiches. 


Canadian  Institute  for  Historical  Microreproductions  /  Institut  Canadian  de  microreproductions  historiques 


Technical  and  Bibliographic  Notea/Notet  tachniquaa  at  bibliographlquea 


The 
tot 


The  Inatitute  haa  attempted  to  obtain  the  beat 
original  copy  available  for  filming.  Featurea  of  thia 
copy  which  may  be  bibiiographlcally  unique, 
which  may  alter  any  of  the  imagea  in  the 
reproduction,  or  which  may  aignificantly  change 
the  uauai  method  of  filming,  are  checked  below. 


D 
D 
D 
D 
D 
D 
D 
D 
D 

D 


D 


Coloured  covera/ 
Couverture  de  couleur 

Covera  damaged/ 
Couverture  endommag^e 

Covera  reatored  and/or  laminated/ 
Couverture  reataurAe  et/ou  peiliculAe 

Co^er  title  miaaing/ 

Le  titre  de  couverture  manque 

Coloured  mapa/ 

Cartaa  gAographiquaa  en  couleur 

Coloured  ink  (i.e.  other  than  blue  or  black)/ 
Encre  de  couleur  (i.e.  autre  que  bleue  ou  noire) 

Coloured  platea  and/or  iliuatrationa/ 
Pianchea  et/ou  iliuatrationa  en  couleur 

Bound  with  other  material/ 
ReliA  avec  d'autrea  documents 

Tight  binding  may  causa  shadows  or  distortion 
along  interior  margin/ 

La  reliura  serr6e  peut  causer  de  I'ombre  ou  de  la 
diatortion  le  long  de  la  marge  intiriaure 

Blank  leaves  added  during  reatoratlon  may 
appear  within  the  text.  Whenever  possible,  these 
have  been  omitted  from  filming/ 
II  se  peut  que  certaines  pages  blanches  ajout6es 
lors  d'une  restauration  apparaissent  dans  le  texte. 
mais,  lorsque  cela  6tait  possible,  ces  pagea  n'ont 
pas  6tA  film6es. 

Additional  comments:/ 
Commentaires  supplAmentaires; 


L'Inatitut  a  microfilm*  le  meilleur  exemplaire 
qu'il  lui  a  6tA  poaaible  de  ae  procurer.  Lea  ditaiia 
de  cet  exemplaire  qui  sent  peut-Atre  uniques  du 
point  de  vue  bIbliogrBphique,  qui  peuvent  modifier 
une  Image  reproduitci,  ou  qui  peuvent  exiger  une 
modification  dana  la  m6thode  normale  de  filmage 
aont  indiquAa  ci-deaaoua. 


□   Coloured  pages/ 
Pagea  de  couleur 


□ 


• 


□ 
0 


D 


This  item  is  filmed  at  the  reduction  ratio  checked  below/ 

Ce  document  est  film*  au  taux  de  reduction  indiqu4  ci-dessous. 


Pages  damaged/ 
Pagea  endommagiea 

Pages  reatored  and/or  laminated/ 
Pages  restaurAea  et/ou  pelliculAes 

Pages  discoloured,  stained  or  foxed/ 
Pagea  dAcolortes,  tachetiea  ou  piqudea 

Pages  detached/ 
Pages  ditachies 

Showthrough/ 
Tranaparence 


The 
pos 
oft 
film 


Ori] 
beg 
the 
sior 
othi 
firsi 
sior 
or  11 


n    Quality  of  print  variaa/ 
Quality  inigale  da  I'lmprassion 

n   Includes  supplementary  material/ 
Comprend  du  materiel  supplAmentaire 

I — I    Only  edition  available/ 


The 
she 
TIN 
whi 

Mai 
diff 
enti 
beg 
righ 
reqi 
met 


Seule  Mition  disponlble 

Pages  wholly  or  partially  obscured  by  errata 
slips,  tissues,  etc.,  have  been  refilmed  to 
enaure  the  beat  poaaible  image/ 
Lea  pages  totalement  ou  partiellement 
obscurcies  par  un  feuillet  d'errata,  une  pelure, 
etc.,  ont  M  filmAes  A  nouveau  de  fa9on  A 
obtenir  la  meilleure  image  possible. 


10X 

14X 

18X 

22X 

28X 

30X 

t 

i 

v/ 

12X 

16X 

20X 

-    - 

24X 

28X 

32X 

i 

I 

lire 

details 
jes  du 
modifier 
ger  une 
fiimage 


The  copy  filmed  here  has  been  reproduced  thanlts 
to  the  generosity  of: 

National  Library  of  Canada 


The  images  appearing  here  are  the  best  quality 
possible  considering  the  condition  and  legibility 
of  the  original  copy  and  in  keeping  with  the 
filming  contract  specifications. 


L'exemplaire  filmd  fut  reproduit  grAce  A  la 
g6n6rosit6  de: 

Bibliothdque  nationale  du  Canada 


Les  images  suivantes  ont  6t6  reproduites  avec  le 
plus  grand  soin,  compte  tenu  de  la  condition  et 
de  la  nettetd  de  l'exemplaire  film6.  et  en 
conformity  avec  les  conditions  du  contrat  de 
fiimage. 


Original  copies  in  printed  paper  covers  are  filmed 
beginning  with  the  front  cover  and  ending  on 
the  last  page  with  a  printed  or  illustrated  impres- 
sion, or  the  bacit  cover  when  appropriate.  All 
other  original  copies  are  filmed  beginning  on  the 
first  page  with  a  printed  or  illustrated  impres- 
sion, and  ending  on  the  last  page  with  a  printed 
or  illustrated  impression. 


6es 


Les  exemplaires  originaux  dont  la  couverture  en 
papier  est  imprimie  sent  film6s  en  commenfant 
par  le  premier  plat  et  en  terminant  soit  par  la 
dernidre  page  qui  comporte  une  empreinte 
d'impression  ou  d'illustration,  soit  par  le  second 
plat,  selon  le  cas.  Tous  les  autres  exemplaires 
originaux  sont  f  ilmds  en  commen9ant  par  la 
premidre  page  qui  comporte  uno  empreinte 
d'impression  ou  d'illustration  et  en  terminant  par 
la  dernidre  page  qui  comporte  une  telle 
empreinte. 


The  last  recorded  frame  on  each  microfiche 
shall  contain  the  symbol  -^  (meaning  "CON- 
TINUED ").  or  the  symbol  V  (meaning  "END  "), 
whichever  applies. 


Un  des  symboles  suivants  apparaitra  sur  la 
dernidre  image  de  cheque  microfiche,  selon  le 
cas:  le  symbole  —^  signifie  "A  SUIVRE  ",  le 
symbole  V  signifie  "FIN". 


re 


Maps,  plates,  charts,  etc.,  may  be  filmed  at 
different  reduction  ratios.  Those  too  large  to  be 
entirely  included  in  one  exposure  are  filmed 
beginning  in  the  upper  left  hand  corner,  left  to 
right  and  top  to  bottom,  as  many  frames  as 
required.  The  following  diagrams  illustrate  *he 
method: 


Les  cartes,  planches,  tableaux,  etc.,  peuvent  dtre 
film6s  d  des  taux  de  reduction  diff6rents. 
Lorsque  le  document  est  trop  grand  pour  dtre 
reproduit  en  un  seul  clich6,  il  est  film6  A  partir 
de  I'angle  sup6rieur  gauche,  de  gauche  d  droite, 
et  de  haut  en  has,  en  prenant  le  nombre 
d'images  ndcessaire.  Les  diagrammes  suivants 
illustrent  la  mdthode. 


y  errata 
Id  to 

nt 

le  pelure, 

i9on  A 


n 


1 

2 

3 

32X 


1 

2 

3 

4 

5 

6 

v,Vs. 


i 


THE   LANE  THAT 
HAD  NO  TURNING 


AND    OTHER   TALES  CONCERNING 
THE    PEOPLE    OF    PONTIAC;    TO- 
GETHER WITH  CERTAIN  "PAR- 
ABLES      OF     PROVINCES.'* 


/ 


\ 


^-  r 


PS  SLf^l 


'  >     1 


17^904 


)  ^  OO   b 


Copyright,  1899,  1900,  by 
GILBERT  PARKER 


Press  of  J.  J.  Little  &  Co. 
New  York,  U.S.  A. 


V 


To  > 

The  Right  Hon.  Sy-  Wilfrid  Laurier,  G.C.M.G. 

Dear  Sir  Wilfrid  Laurier: 

Since  I  first  began  to  write  these  tales  in  1892,  I 
have  had  it  in  my  mind  to  dedicate  to  you  the 
•*  bundle  of  life  "  when  it  should  be  complete.  It 
seemed  to  me — and  it  seems  so  still — that  to  put 
your  name  upon  the  covering  of  my  parcel — as  one 
should  say,  In  care  ^/— when  it  went  forth,  was  to 
secure  its  safe  and  considerate  delivery  to  that  public 
of  the  Empire  which  is  so  much  in  yojar  debt. 

But  with  other  feelings  also,  do  I  dedicate  this  vol- 
ume to  yourself.  For  many  years  your  name  has 
stood  for  a  high  and  noble  compromise  between  the 
temperaments  and  the  intellectual  and  social  habits  of 
two  races,  and  I  am  not  singular  in  thinking  that  you 
have'  done  rrore  than  most  other  men  to  make  the 
English  ana  French  of  the  .Dominion  understand 
each  other  better.  There  are  somewhat  awkward 
limits  to.  true  understanding  as  yet,  but  that  sym- 
pathetic service  which  you  render  to  both  peoples, 
with  a  conscientious  striving  for  impartiality,  tempers 
even  the  wind  of  party  warfare  to  the  shorn  lamb  of 
political  opposition.  • 

In  a  sincere  sympathy  with  French  life  and  char- 
acter, as  exhibited  in  the  democratic  yet  monarchial 
province  of  Quebec  (or  Lower  Canada,  as,  historically, 
I  still  love  to  think  of  it),  moved  by  friendly  observa- 
tion, and  seeking  to  be  truthful  and  impartial,  I  have 


i- 

F 


T 


■  *  fc-t^* 


vl 


DEDICATION 


made  this  book  and  others  deah'ng  with  the  life  of 
the  proud  province,  which  a  century  and  a  half  of 
English  governance  has  not  Anglicised.  This  series 
of  more  or  less  connected  stories,  however,  has  been 
the  most  cherished  of  all  my  labours,  covering,  as  it 
has  done,  so  many  years,  and  being  the  accepted  of 
my  anxious  judgment  ojt  of  a  much  larger  gather- 
ing, so  many  numbers  of  which  are  retired  to  the 
seclusion  of  copyright,  while  reserved  from  publica- 
tion. In  pas'Jng,  I  need  hardly  say  that  the  "  Pon- 
tiac  "  of  this  book  is  an  imaginary  place  and  has  no 
association  with  the  real  Pontiac  of  the  Province. 

I  had  meant  to  call  the  volume,  Born  with  a  Golden 
Spoo7ij  a  title  stolen  from  the  old  phrase,  "  Born  with 
a  golden  spoon  in  the  mouth  " ;  but  at  the  last  mo- 
ment ^  have  given  the  book  the  name  of  the  tale 
whi<  .,  chronologically,  the  climax  of  the  series,  and 
the  end  of  my  narratives  of  French  Canadian  life  and 
character.  I  had  chosen  the  former  title  because  of 
an  inherent  meaning  in  its  relation  to  my  subject.  A 
man  born  in  the  purple — in  comfort,  wealth,  and 
secure  estate — is  said  to  have  the  golden  spoon  in  his 
mouth.  In  the  eyes  of  the  world,  however,  the 
phrase  has  a  somewhat  ironical  suggestiveness,  and 
to  have  luxury,  wealth,  and  place  as  a  birthright  is 
not  thought  to  be  the  most  fortunate  incident  of 
mortality.  My  application  of  the  phrase  is,  there- 
fore, different. 

I  have,  as  you  know,  travelled  far  and  wide  during 
the  past  seventeen  years,  and  though  I  have  seen  peo- 
ple as  frugal  and  industrious  as  the  French  Canadians, 
I  have  never  seen  frugality  and  industry  associated 


DEDICATION 


Vll 


with  so  much  domestic  virtue,  so  much  education 
and  inteUigence,  and  so  deep  and  simple  a  religious 
life;  nor  have  I  ever  seen  a  priesthood  at  once  so 
devoted  and  high-minded  in  all  that  concerns  the 
home  life  of-  their  people,  as  in  French  Canada.  A 
land  without  poverty  and  yet  without  riches,  French 
Canada  stands  alone,  too  well  educated  to  have  a 
peasantry,  too  poor  to  have  an  aristocracy ;  as  though 
in  her  the  ancient  prayer  had  been  answered  :  "  Give 
me  neither  poverty  nor  riches,  but  feed  me  with  food 
convenient  for  me."  And  it  is  of  the  habitant  of 
Quebec,  before  all  men  else,  I  should  say,  "Born 
with  the  golden  spoon  in  his  mouth." 

To  you,  sir,  I  come  with  this  book,  which  contains 
the  first  things  I  ever  wrote  out  of  the  life  of  the 
province  so  dear  to  you,  and  the  last  things  also  that 
I  shall  ever  write  about  it.  I  beg  you  to  receive  it  as 
the  loving  recreation  of  one  who  sympathises  with  the 
people  of  whom  you  come,  and  honours  their  virtues, 
and  who  has  no  fear  for  the  unity,  and  no  doubt  as 
to  the  splendid  future,  of  the  nation,  whose  fibre  is 
got  of  the  two  great  civilizing  races  of  Europe. 

Lastly,  you  will  know  with  what  admiration  and 
regard  I  place  your  name  on  the  fore  page  of  my 
book,  and  greet  in  you  the  statesman,  the  litt&ateury 
and  the  personal  friend. 
Believe  me, 

Dear  Sir  Wilfrid  Laurier, 

Yours  very  sincerely,   ■ 

Gilbert  Parker. 

20  Carlton  House  Terrace, 
London,  S.  W. 
14th  August,  1900. 


s 


\ 


1 


CONTENTS 


PACB 

The  Lane  that  had  No  Turning            .        .        .       .  i 

The  Absurd  Romance  of  P'tite  Louison        ...  89 

The  Little  Bell  of  Honour 99 

A  Son  of  the  Wilderness laj 

A  Worker  in  Stone            135 

The  Tragic  Comedy  of  Annette 149 

The  Marriage  of  the  Miller 155 

MaTHURIN j(ij 

The  Story  of  the  Lime-Burner 171 

The  Woodsman's  Story  of  the  Great  White  Chief    .  i8i 

Uncle  Jim ,87 

The  House  with  the  Tall  Porch igg 

Parpon  the  Dwarf 205 

Times  were  Hard  in  Pontiac 231 

Medallion's  Whim 239 

The  Prisoner 255 

An  Upset  Price 263 

A  Fragment  of  Lives 275 

The  Man  that  Died  at  Alma 283 

The  Baron  of  Beaugard 297 


CONTENTS 


Parables  of  a  Province 
The  Golden  Pipes     . 
The  Guardian  of  the  Fire 
Ky  that  Place  called  Peradventure 
The  Singing  of  the  Bees  . 
There  was  a  Little  City    . 
The  Forge  in  the  Valley 


PACK 

313 
315 

320 

325 
330 

333 
351 


TACK 

320 

325 
330 

333 
351 


THE  LANE  THAT   HAD   NO 
TURNING 


I 


€ 


THE  LANE  THAT   HAD  NO 

TURNING 

THE    LANE    THAT    HAD    NO 
TURNING 

CHAPTER   I 


THE  RETURN   OF  MADELINETTE 

HIS  Excellency  the  Governor — the  English  Gov- 
ernor of  French  Canada — was  come  to  Pon- 
tiac,  accompanied  by  a  goodly  retinue;  by  private 
secretary,  military  secretary,  aide-de-camp,  cabinet 
minister,  and  all  that.  He  was  making  a  tour  of  the 
Province,  but  it  was  obvious  that  he  had  gone  out  of 
his  way  to  visit  Pontiac,  for  there  were  disquieting 
rumours  in  the  air  concerning  the  loyalty  of  the  dis- 
trict. Indeed,  the  Governor  had  arrived  but  twenty- 
four  hours  after  a  meeting  had  been  held  under  the 
presidency  of  the  Seigneur,  at  which  resolutions  were 
presented  easily  translatable  into  sedition.  The  Cure 
and  the  Avocat,  arriving  in  the  nick  of  time,  had  both 
spoken  against  these  resolutions;  with  the  result  that 
the  new-born  ardour  in  the  minds  of  the  simple  habi- 
tants had  died  down,  and  the  Seigneur  had  parted  from 
the  Cure  and  the  Avocat  in  anger. 

Once  before  Pontiac  had  been  involved  in  an  illegal 


.5- 


i 
f 

¥ 


2  THE  LANE  THAT  HAD  NO  TURNING 


demonstration.  Valmond,  the  bizarre  but  popular 
Napoleonic  pretender,  had  raised  his  standard  there, 
the  stones  before  the  parish  church  had  been  stained 
with  his  blood,  and  he  lay  in  the  churchyard  of  St. 
Saviour's  forgiven  and  unforgotten.  How  was  it  pos- 
sible for  Pontiac  to  forget  him?  Had  he  not  left  his 
little  fortune  to  the  parish?  and  had  he  not  also  left 
twenty  thousand  francs  for  the  musical  education  of 
Madelinette  Lajeunesse,  the  daughter  of  the  village 
forgeron,  to  learn  singing  of  the  best  masters  in  Paris? 
Pontiac's  wrong-doings  had  brought  it  more  profit 
than  penalty,  more  praise  than  punishment:  for,  after 
five  years  in  France  in  the  care  of  the  Little  Chemist's 
widow,  Madelinette  Lajeunesse  had  become  the  great- 
est singer  of  her  day.  But  what  had  put  the  severest 
strain  upon  the  modesty  of  Pontiac  was  the  fact  that, 
on  the  morrow  of  Madelinette's  first  triumph  in  Paris, 
she  had  married  M.  Louis  Racine,  the  new  Seigneur 
of  Pontiac. 

What  more  could  Pontiac  wish?  It  had  been  re- 
warded for  its  mistakes ;  it  had  not  even  been  chastened, 
save  that  it  was  marked  "  Suspicious,"  as  to  its  loyalty, 
at  the  headquarters  of  the  English  Government  in 
Quebec.  It  should  have  worn  a  crown  of  thorns,  but 
it  flaunted  a  crown  of  roses.  A  most  unreasonable 
good  fortune  seemed  to  pursue  it.  It  had  been  led  to 
expect  that  its  new  Seigneur  would  be  an  Englishman, 
one  George  Fournel,  to  whom,  as  the  late  Seigneur  had 
more  than  once  declared,  the  property  had  been  left  by 
will;  but  at  his  death  no  will  had  been  found,  and  Louis 
Racine,  the  direct  heir  in  blood,  had  succeeded  to  the 
property  and  the  title. 

Brilliant,  enthusiastic,  fanatically  French,  the  new 
Seigneur  had  set  himself  to  revive  certain  old  tradi- 


THE  LANE  THAT  HAD  NO  TURNING  3 


tions,  customs,  and  privileges  of  the  seigneurial  posi- 
tion. He  was  reactionary,  seductive,  generous,  and  at 
first  he  captivated  the  hearts  of  Pontiac.  He  did  more 
than  that.  He  captivated  MadeHnette  Lajeunesse.  In 
spite  of  her  years  in  Paris — severe,  studious  years, 
which  shut  out  the  social  world  and  the  temptations  of 
Bohemian  life — Madelinette  retained  a  strange  sim- 
plicity of  heart  and  mind,  a  desperate  love  for  her  old 
home  which  would  not  be  gainsaid,  a  passionate  loyalty 
to  her  past,  which  was  an  illusory  attempt  to  arrest  the 
inevitable  changes  that  come  with  growth ;  and,  with  a 
sudden  impulse,  she  had  sealed  herself  to  her  past  at 
the  very  outset  of  her  great  career  by  marriage  with 
Louis  Racine. 

On  the  very  day  of  their  marriage  Louis  Racine  had 
made  a  painful  discovery.  A  heritage  of  his  fathers, 
which  had  skipped  two  generations,  suddenly  appeared 
in  himself:  he  was  becoming  a  hunchback! 

Terror,  despair,  gloom,  anxiety  had  settled  upon 
him.  Three  months  later  Madelinette  had  gone  to 
Paris  alone.  The  Seigneur  had  invented  excuses  for 
not  accompanying  her,  so  she  went  instead  in  the  care 
of  the  Little  Chemist's  widow  as  of  old.  Louis  had 
promised  to  follow  within  another  three  months,  but 
he  had  not  done  so.  The  surgical  operation  performed 
upon  him  was  unsuccessful — the  strange  growth  in- 
creased. Sensitive,  fearful  and  morose,  he  would  not 
go  to  Europe  to  be  known  as  the  hunchback  husband 
of  Lajeunesse  the  great  singer.  He  dreaded  the  "hour 
when  Madelinette  and  he  should  meet  again.  A  thoiJ- 
sand  times  he  pictured  her  as  turning  from  him  in 
loathing  and  contempt.  He  had  married  her  because 
he  loved  her,  but  he  knew  well  enough  that  ten  thou- 
sand other  men  could  love  her  just  as  well,  and  be 


4  THE  LANE  THAT  HAD  NO  TURNING 

something  more  than  a  deformed  seigneur  of  an  ob- 
scure manor  in  Quebec. 

As  his  gloomy  imagination  pictured  the  future,  when 
Madelinette  should  return  and  see  him  as  he  was  and 
cease  to  love  him — to  build  up  his  Seigneurial  honour 
to  an  undue  importance,  to  give  his  position  a  fictitious 
splendour,  became  a  mania  with  him.  No  ruler  of  a 
Grand  Duchy  ever  cherished  his  honour  dearer  or  ex- 
acted homage  more  persistently  than  did  Louis  Racine 
in  the  Seigneury  of  Pontiac.  Coincident  with  the 
increase  of  these  futile  extravagances  was  the  increase 
of  his  fanatical  patriotism,  which  at  last  found  vent  in 
seditious  writings,  agitations,  the  purchase  of  rifles,  in- 
citement to  rebellion,  and  the  formation  of  an  armed, 
liveried  troop  of  dependents  at  the  Manor.  On  the 
very  eve  of  the  Governor's  coming,  despite  the  Cure's 
and  the  Avocat's  warnings,  he  had  held  a  patriotic 
meeting  intended  to  foster  a  stubborn,  if  silent,  disre- 
gard of  the  Governor's  presence  amongst  them. 

The  speech  of  the  Cure,  who  had  given  guarantee 
for  the  good  behaviour  of  his  people  to  the  Govern- 
ment, had  been  so  tinged  with  sorrowful  appeal,  had 
recalled  to  them  so  acutely  the  foolish  demonstration 
which  had  ended  in  the  death  of  Valmond,  that  the 
people  had  turned  from  the  exasperated  Seigneur  with 
the  fire  of  monomania  in  his  eyes,  and  had  left  him 
alone  in  the  hall,  passionately  protesting  that  the  souls 
of  Frenchmen  were  not  in  them. 

Next  day  upon  the  church,  upon  the  Louis  Quinze 
Hotel,  and  elsewhere  the  Union  Jack  flew,  the  British 
colours  flaunted  it  in  Pontiac  with  welcome  to  the 
Governor.  But  upon  the  Seigneury  was  another  flag 
— it  of  the  golden  lilies.  Within  the  Manor  House 
M.  Racine  sat  in  the  great  seigneurial  chair,  returned 


THE  LANE  THAT  HAD  NO  TURNING  5 


from  the  gates  of  death.  As  he  had  come  home  from 
the  futile  pubHc  meeting,  galloping  through  the  streets 
and  out  upon  the  Seigneury  road  in  the  dusk,  his 
horse  had  shied  upon  a  bridge  where  mischievous  lads 
waylaid  travellers  with  ghostly  heads  made  of  lighted 
candles  in  hollowed  pumpkins,  and  horse  and  man  had 
been  plunged  into  the  stream  beneath.  His  faithful 
servant  Havel  had  seen  the  accident,  and  dragged  his 
insensible  master  from  the  water. 

Now  the  Seigneur  sat  in  the  great  arm-chair  glower- 
ing out  upon  the  cheerful  day.  As  he  brooded,  shaken 
and  weak  and  bitter — all  his  thoughts  were  bitter  now 
— a  flash  of  scarlet,  a  glint  of  white  plumes  crossed  his 
line  of  vision,  disappeared,  then  again  came  into  view, 
and  horses'  hoofs  rang  out  on  the  hard  road  below. 
He  started  to  his  feet,  but  fell  back  again,  so  feeble  was 
he,  then  rang  the  bell  at  his  side  with  nervous  insist- 
ence. A  door  opened  quickly  behind  him,  and  his 
voice  said  imperiously: 

"  Quick,  Havel — to  the  door!  The  Governor  and  his 
suite  have  come.  Call  Tardif,  and  have  wine  and  cake 
brought  at  once.  When  the  Governor  enters,  let  Tar- 
dif stand  at  the  door  and  you  beside  my  chair.  Have 
the  men-at-arms  get  into  livery  and  make  a  guard  of 
honour  for  the  Governor  when  he  leaves.  Their  new 
rifles,  too,  and  let  old  Fashode  wear  his  medal!  See 
that  Lucre  is  not  filthy — ha!  ha!  very  good,  I  must  let 
the  Governor  hear  that.  Quick — quick,  Havel !  They 
are  entering  the  grounds.  Let  the  manor  bell  be  rung 
and  every  one  mustered.  He  shall  see  that  to  be  a 
Seigneur  is  not  an  empty  honour.  I  am  something  in 
the  state,  something  in  my  own  right! "  His  lips  moved 
restlessly;  he  frowned;  his  hands  nervously  clasped  the 
arms  of  the  chair.    "  Madelinette,  too,  shall  see  that  I 


6  THE  LANE  THAT  HAD  NO  TURNING 


am  to  be  reckoned  with,  that  I  am  not  a  nobody.  By 
God,  then,  but  she  shall  see  it!  "  he  added,  bringing  his 
clasped  hand  down  hard  upon  the  wood. 

There  was  a  stir  outside,  a  clanking  of  chains,  a 
champing  of  bits,  the  murmurs  of  the  crowd  who  were 
gathering  fast  in  the  grounds.  Presently  the  door  was 
thrown  open,  and  Havel  announced  the  Governor. 
Louis  Racine  got  to  his  feet,  but  the  Governor  hast- 
ened forward,  and,  taking  both  his  hands,  forced  him 
gently  back  into  the  chair. 

"  No,  no,  my  dear  Seigneur.  You  must  not  rise. 
This  is  no  state  visit,  but  a  friendly  call  to  offer  congra- 
tulations on  your  happy  escape,  and  to  inquire  how  you 


>» 


are. 

The  Governor  said  his  sentences  easily,  but  he  sud- 
denly flushed  and  was  embarrassed,  for  Louis  Racine's 
deformity,  of  which  he  had  not  known — Pontiac  kept 
its  troubles  to  itself — stared  him  in  the  face,  and  he 
felt  the  Seigneur's  eyes  fastened  on  him  with  strange 
intensity. 

"  I  have  to  thank  your  Excellency,"  the  Seigneur 
said  in  a  hasty  nervous  voice.  "  I  fell  on  my  shoulders 
— that  saved  me.  If  I  had  fallen  on  my  head,  I  should 
have  been  killed  no  doubt.  My  shoulders  saved  me!  " 
he  added,  with  a  petulaoit  insistence  in  his  voice,  a  mor- 
bid anxiety  in  his  face. 

"  Most  providential,"  responded  the  Governor.  "  It 
"grieves  me  that  it  should  have  happened  on  the  occa- 
sion of  my  visit.  I  missed  the  Seigneur's  loyal  public 
welcome.  But  I  am  happy,"  he  continued  with  smooth 
deliberation,  "  to  have  it  here  in  this  old  Manor  House, 
where  other  loyal  French  subjects  of  England  have 
done  honour  to  their  sovereign's  representative." 

**Tlrs  place  is  sacred  to  hospitality — and  patriotism, 


[NG 

Jy.  By 
ging  his 

hains,  a 
ho  were 
loor  was 
overnor. 
ior  hast- 
ced  him 

not  rise. 
•  congra- 
how  you 

t  he  sud- 
Racine's 
tiac  kept 
,  and  he 
I  strange 

Seigneur 
jhoulders 

I  should 
red  me! " 

e,  a  mor- 

lor.  "It 
the  occa- 
al  pubUc 
1  smooth 
)r  House, 
md  have 

re." 
atriotism, 


THE  LANE  THAT  HAD  NO  TURNING    7 

your  Excellency,"  said  Louis  Racine,  nervousness 
passing  from  his  voice  and  a  curious,  hard  look  com- 
ing into  his  face.  ! 

The  Governor  was  determined  not  to  see  the  double- 
meaning.  *'  It  is  a  privilege  to  hear  you  say  so.  I 
shall  recall  the  fact  to  Her  Majesty's  Government  in 
the  report  I  shall  make  upon  my  tour  of  the  province. 
I  have  a  feeling  that  the  Queen's  pleasure  in  the  devo- 
tion of  her  distinguished  French  subjects  may  take 
some  concrete  forms." 

The  Governor's  suite  looked  at  each  other  signifi- 
cantly, for  never  before  in  his  journeys  had  His  Excel- 
lency hinted  so  strongly  that  a^n  honour  might  be  con- 
ferred. Veiled  as  it  was,  it  was  still  patent  as  the  sun. 
Spots  of  colour  shot  into  the  Seigneur's  cheeks.  An 
honour  from  the  young  English  Queen ! — That  would 
mate  with  Madelinette's  fame.  After  all,  it  was  only 
his  due.  He  suddenly  found  it  hard  to  be  consistent. 
His  mind  was  in  a  whirl.     The  Governor  continued — 

"  It  must  have  given  you  great  pleasure  to  know 
that  at  Windsor  Her  Majesty  has  given  tokens  of 
honour  to  the  famous  singer,  the  wife  of  a  notable 
French  subject,  who,  while  passionately  eager  to  keep 
alive  French  sentiment,  has,  as  we  believe,  a  deep 
loyalty  to  England."  ' 

The  Governor  had  said  too  much.  He  had  thought 
to  give  the  Seigneur  an  opportunity  to  recede  from  his 
seditious  position  there  and  then,  and  to  win  his  future 
loyalty.  M.  Racine's  situation  had  peril;  and  the  Gov- 
ernor had  here  shown  him  the  way  of  escape.  But  he 
had  said  one  thing  that  drove  Louis  Racine  mad.  He 
had  given  him  unknown  information  about  his  own 
wife.  Louis  did  not  know  that  Madelinette  had  been 
received  by  the  Queen, or  that  she  had  received  "tokens 


8  THE  LANE  THAT  HAD  NO  TURNING 


of  honour."  Wild  with  resentment,  he  saw  in  the  Gov- 
ernor's words  a  consideration  for  himself  based  only 
on  the  fact  that  he  was  the  husband  of  the  great  singer. 
He  trembled  to  his  feet. 

At  that  moment  there  was  a  cheering  outside — great 
cheering — but  he  did  not  heed  it,  he  was  scarcely  aware 
of  it.  If  it  touched  his  understanding  at  all,  it  only 
meant  to  him  a  demonstration  in  honour  of  the 
Governor. 

"  Loyalty  to  the  flag  of  England,  your  Excellency !  " 
he  said,  in  a  hoarse,  acrid  voice.  "  You  speak  of  loy- 
alty to  us  whose  lives  for  two  centuries ! "     He 

paused,  for  he  heard  a  voice  calling  his  name. 

"Louis!     Louis!     Louis!" 
.     The  fierce  words  he  had  been  about  to  utter  died  on 
his  lips,  his  eyes  stared  at  the  open  window, bewildered 
and  even  frightened. 

"Louis!     Louis!" 

Now  the  voice  was  inside  the  house.  He  stood 
trembling,  both  hands  grasping  the  arms  of  the  chair. 
Every  eye  in  the  room  was  now  turned  towards  the 
door.  As  it  opened,  the  Seigneur  sank  back  in  the 
chair,  a  look  of  helpless  misery  touched  by  a  fierce 
pride  covering  his  face. 

"Louis!" 

It  was  Madelinette,  who,  disregarding  the  assembled 
company,  ran  forward  to  him  and  caught  both  his 
hands  in  hers. 

"  O,  Louis,  I  have  heard  of  your  accident,  and " 

she  stopped  suddenly  short.  The  Governor  turned 
away  his  head.  Every  person  in  the  room  did  the 
same.  For,  as  she  bent  over  him — she  saw!  Saw  for 
the  first  time;  for  the  first  time,  Knew! 

A  look  of  horrified  amazement,  of  shrinking  anguish, 


ING 


THE  LANE  THAT  HAD  NO  TURNING    9 


he  Gov- 
;cd  only 
t  singer. 

e— great 
:ly  aware 
,  it  only 
:   of   the 

sllency! " 
ik  of  loy- 
-! "    He 


;r  died  on 
lewildered 


He  stood 
the  chair, 
wards  the 
Lck  in  the 
ly  a  fierce 


assembled 
both  his 

and " 

lor  turned 
m  did  the 
!     Saw  for 

ig  anguish, 


crossed  over  her  face.  He  felt  the  lightning-like  si- 
lence, he  knew  that  she  had  seen;  he  struggled  to  his 
feet,  staring  fiercely  at  her. 

That  one  torturing  instant  had  taken  all  the  colour 
from  her  face,  but  there  was  a  strange  brightness  in  her 
eyes,  a  new  power  in  her  bearing.  She  gently  forced 
him  into  the  seat  again. 

'*  You  are  not  strong  enough,  Louis.  You  must  be 
tranquil." 

She  turned  now  to  the  Governor.  He  made  a  sign 
to  his  suite,  who,  bowing,  slowly  left  the  room. 

"  Permit  me  to  welcome  you  to  your  native  land 
again,  madame,"  he  said.  "  You  have  won  for  it  a  dis- 
tinction it  could  never  have  earned,  and  the  world  gives 
you  many  honours." 

She  was  smiling  and  still,  and  with  one  hand  clasping 
her  husband's,  she  said: 

"  The  honour  I  value  most,  my  native  land  has  given 
me.  I  am  lady  of  the  Manor  here,  and  wife  of  the 
Seigneur  Racine ! " 

Agitated  triumph  came  upon  Louis  Racine's  face,  a 
weird,  painful  vanity  entered  into  him.  He  stood  up 
beside  his  wife,  as  she  turned  and  looked  at  him,  show- 
ing not  a  sign  that  what  she  saw  disturbed  her. 

"  It  is  no  mushroom  honour  to  be  Seigneur  of  Pon- 
tiac,  your  Excellency,"  he  said,  in  a  tone  that  jarred. 
"  The  barony  is  two  hundred  years  old.  By  rights 
granted  frdi|^  the  crown  of  France,  I  am  Baron  of  Pon- 
tiac." 

"  I  think  England  has  not  yet  recognised  the  title!  " 
said  the  Governor  suggestively,  for  he  was  here  to 
make  peace,  and  in  the  presence  of  this  man,  whose 
mental  torture  was  extreme,  he  would  not  allow  him- 
self to  be  irritated. 


k' 


10  THE  LANE  THAT  HAD  NO  TURNING 

"  Our  baronies  have  never  been  recognised !  "  said 
the  Seigneur  harshly.  "  And  yet  we  are  asked  to  love 
the  flag  of  England  and " 

"  And  to  show  that  we  are  too  proud  to  ask  for  a 
right  that  none  can  take  away,"  interposed  Madeli- 
nette,  graciously  and  eagerly,  as  though  to  prevent 
Louis  from  saying  what  he  intended.  All  at  once  she 
had  had  to  order  her  life  anew,  to  replace  old  thoughts 
by  new  ones.  "  We  honour  and  obey  the  rulers  of  our 
land,  and  fly  the  English  flag,  and  welcome  the  English 
Governor  gladly  when  he  comes  to  us — will  your  Ex- 
cellency have  some  refreshment?  "  she  added  quickly, 
for  she  saw  the  cloud  on  the  Seigneur's  brow. 
"  Louis!  "  she  continued,  "  will  you " 

"  I  have  ordered  refreshment,"  said  the  Seigneur  ex- 
citedly, the  storm  passing  from  his  face,  however. 
"  Havel,  Tardif — where  are  you,  fellows ! "  He  stamped 
his  foot  imperiously. 

Havel  entered  with  a  tray  of  wine  and  glasses,  fol- 
lowed by  Tardif  loaded  with  cakes  and  comfits,  and  set 
them  on  the  table. 


•I|i 


Ten  minutes  later  the  Governor  took  his  leave.  At 
the  front  door  he  stopped  surprised,  for  a  guard  of 
honour  of  twenty  men  were  drawn  up.  He  turned  to 
the  Seigneur. 

"  What  soldiers  are  these?  "  he  asked. 

"The  Seigneury  company,  your  Excellency,"  replied 
Louis. 

"  What  uniform  is  it  they  wear?  "  he  asked  in  an  even 
tone,  but  a  black  look  in  his  eye,  which  did  not  escape 
Madelinette. 

"  The  livery  of  the  Barony  of  Pontiac,"  answered  tha 
Seigneur. 


w^i! 


•wte- 


ING 


THE  LANE  THAT  HAD  NO  TURNING   ii 


1!"  said 
1  to  love 

Lsk  for  a 
Madeli- 
prevent 
once  she 
thoughts 
jrs  of  our 
e  English 
your  Ex- 
1  quickly, 
r's    brow. 

gneur  ex- 

however. 

e  stamped 

asses,  fol- 
ts,  and  set 


leave.  At 
guard  of 
turned  to 


y,"  replied 

in  an  even 
not  escape 

swered  tha 


The  Governor  looked  at  them  a  moment  without 
speaking.  "  It  is  French  uniform  of  the  time  of  Louis 
Quinze,"  he  said.  '*  Picturesque,  but  informal,"  he 
added. 

He  went  over,  and  taking  a  carbine  from  one  of  the 
men,  examined  it.  "  Your  carbines  arc  not  so  uncon- 
ventional and  antique,"  he  said  meaningly,  and  with 
a  frosty  smile.  "  The  compromise  of  the  centuries — 
hcint "  he  added  to  the  Cure,  who,  with  the  Avocat, 
was  now  looking  on  with  some  trepidation.  **  I  am 
wondering  if  it  is  quite  legal.  It  is  charming  to 
have  such  a  guard  of  honour,  but  I  am  wondering — 
wondering — eh,  monsieur  I'avocat,  is  it  legal?" 

The  Avocat  made  no  reply,  but  the  Cure's  face  was 
greatly  troubled.  The  Seigneur's  momentary  placid- 
ity passed. 

"  I  answer  for  their  legality,  your  Excellency,"  he 
said,  in  a  high,  assertive  voice. 

"  Of  course,  of  course,  you  will  answer  for  it,"  said 
the  Governor,  smiling  enigmatically.  He  came  sud- 
denly forward  and  held  out  his  hand  to  Madelinette. 

"  Madame,  I  shall  remember  your  kindness,  and  I 
appreciate  the  simple  honours  done  me  here.  Your 
arrival  at  the  moment  of  my  visit  is  a  happy  circum- 
stance." 

There  was  a  meaning  in  his  eye — not  in  his  voice— 
which  went  straight  to  Madelinette's  understanding. 
She  murmured  something  in  reply,  and  a  moment 
afterwards  the  Governor,  his  suite,  and  the  crowd  were 
gone,  and  the  men-at-arms — the  fantastic  body  of  men 
in  tneir  antique  livery,  armed  with  the  latest  modern 
weapons,  had  gone  back  to  civic  life  again. 

Inside  the  house  once  more,  Madelinette  laid  her 
hand  upon  Louis'  arm  with  a  smile  that  wholly  de- 


I 


12   THE  LANE  THAT  HAD  NO  TURNING 


Jii     i 


ceived  him  for  a  moment.  He  thought  now  that  slie 
must  have  known  of  his  deformity  before  she  came — 
the  world  was  so  full  of  tale-bearers!  and  had  long 
since  maybe  reconciled  herself  to  the  painful  fact. 
She  had  shown  no  surprise,  no  shrinking.  There  had 
been  only  the  one  lightning  instant  in  which  he  had 
felt  a  kind  of  suspension  of  her  breath  and  being,  but 
when  he  had  looked  her  in  the  face,  she  was  com- 
posed and  smiling.  After  fell  his  frightened  anticipa- 
tion, the  great  moment  had  come  and  gone  without 
tragedy.  With  satisfaction  he  looked  in  the  mirror  in 
the  hall  as  they  passed  inside  the  house.  He  saw  no 
reason  to  quarrel  with  his  face.  Was  it  possible  that 
the  deformity  did  not  matter,  after  all  ? 

He  felt  Madelinette's  hand  on  his  arm.  He  turned 
and  clasped  her  to  his  breast. 

He  did  not  notice  that  she  kept  her  hands  under  her 
chin  as  he  drew  her  to  him,  that  she  did  not,  as  had  been 
her  wont,  put  them  on  his  shoulders.  He  did  not  feel 
her  shrink,  and  no  one,  seeing,  could  have  said  that  she 
shrank  from  him  in  ever  so  little. 

"  How  beautiful  you  are!  "  he  said,  as  he  looked  into 
her  face. 

"  How  glad  I  am  to  be  here  again,  and  how  tired  I 
am,  Louis !  "  she  said.  "  I've  driven  thirty  miles  since 
daylight."  She  disengaged  herself.  "  I  am  going  to 
sleep  now,"  she  added.  "  I  am  going  to  turn  the  key 
in  my  door  till  evening.  Please  tell  Madame  Marie  so, 
Louis!" 

Inside  her  room  alone,  she  flung  herself  on  her  bed 
in  agony  and  despair. 

"  Louis — O,  my  God! "  she  cri*?d,  and  sobbed  and 
sobbed  her  strength  away. 


CHAPTER  II 


WHEN   THE   RED-COATS   CAME 


A  MONTH  later  there  was  a  sale  of  the  household 
effects,  the  horses,  and  general  possessions  of 
Medallion  the  auctioneer,  who,  though  a  Protestant 
and  an  Englishman,  had,  by  his  wits  and  goodness  of 
heart,  endeared  himself  to  the  parish.  Therefore,  the 
notables  among  the  habitants  had  gathered  in  his 
empty  house  for  a  last  drink  of  good-fellowship — Mu- 
roe  the  charcoalman,  Duclosse  the  mealman,  Benoit 
tHe  ne'er-do-weel,  Gingras  the  one-eyed  shoemaker, 
and  a  few  others.  They  had  drunk  the  health  of  Me- 
dallion, they  had  drunk  the  health  of  the  Cure,  and  now 
Duclosse  the  mealman  raised  his  glass.  "  Here's 
to !" 

"  Wait  a  minute,  porridge-pot,"  cried  Muroc.  "  The 
best  man  here  should  raise  the  glass  first  and  say  the 
votre  santd.  'Tis  M'sieu'  Medallion  should  speak  and 
sip  now!  '* 

Medallion  was  half-sitting  on  the  window-sill,  ab- 
stractedly listening.  He  had  been  thinking  that  his 
ships  were  burned  behind  him  and  that  in  middle  age  he 
was  starting  out  to  make  another  camp  for  himself  in 
the  world,  all  because  of  the  new  Seigneur  of  Pontiac. 
Time  was  when  he  had  been  successful  here,  but  Louis 
Racine  had  changed  all  that.  His  hand  was  against 
the  English,  and  he  had  brought  a  French  auctioneer 
to  Pontiac.     Medallion  might  have  divided  the  parish 


1 1 


14  THE  LANE  THAT  HAD  NO  TURNING 

as  to  patronage,  but  he  had  other  views.  So  he  was 
going.  Madelinette  had  urged  him  to  stay,  bat  he 
had  replied  that  it  was  too  late.  The  harm  was  not  to 
be  undone. 

As  Muroc  spoke,  every  one  turned  toward  Medal- 
lion. He  came  over  and  filled  a  glass  at  the  table  and 
raised  it. 

"  "  I  drink  to  Madelinette,  daughter  of  that  fifle  old 
pufiing  forgeron,  Lajeunesse,"  he  added,  as  the  big 
blacksmith  now  entered  the  room.  Lajeunesse  grinned 
and  ducked  his  head.  "  I  knew  Madelinette  as  did  you 
all  when  I  could  take  her  on  my  knee  and  tell  her  Eng- 
lish stories  and  listen  to  her  sing  French  chansons — the 
best  in  the  world.  She  has  gone  on,  we  stay  where  we 
are.  But  she  proves  her  love  to  us,  by  taking  her  hus- 
band from  Pontiac  and  coming  back  to  us.  May  she 
never  find  a  spot  so  good  to  come  to  and  so  hard  to 
leave  as  Pontiac !  " 

He  drank,  and  they  all  did  the  same.  Draining  his 
glass.  Medallion  let  it  fall  on  the  stone  floor.  It  broke 
into  a  hundred  pieces. 

Pie  came  and  shook  hands  with  Lajeunesse.  "  Give 
her  my  love,"  he  said.  "  Tell  her  the  highest  bidder 
on  earth  could  not  buy  one  of  the  kisses  she  gave  me 
when  she  was  five  and  I  was  thirty !  " 

Then  he  shook  hands  with  them  all  and  went  into  the 
next  room. 

"  Why  did  he  drop  his  glass?"  asked  Gingras  the 
shoemaker. 

"  That's  the  way  of  the  aristocrats  when  it's  the 
damnedest  toast  that  ever  was !  "  said  Duclosse  the 
mealman.     "  Eh,  Lajeunesse,  that's  so,  isn't  it?  " 

"  What  the  devil  do  I  know  about  aristocrats !  "  said 
Lajeunesse. 


THE  LANE  THAT  HAD  NO  TURNING  15 


"  You're  among  the  best  of  the  land,  now  that  Llade- 
linette's  married  to  the  Seigneur.  You  ought  to  wear 
a  paper  collar  every  day!  " 

"Bah!"  answered  the  blacksmith.  "I'm  only  old 
Lajeunesse  the  blacksmith,  though  she's  my  girl,  my 
lads,  I  was  Joe  Lajeunesse  yesterday,  and*I'll  be  Joe 
Lajeunesse  to-morrow,  and  I'll  die  Joe  Lajeunesse  the 
forgeron — bagosh!  So  you  take  me  as  you  find  me. 
M'sieu'  Racine  doesn't  marry  me.  And  Madelinette 
doesn't  take  me  to  Paris,  and  lead  me  round  the  stage 
and  say,  *  This  is  M'sieu'  Lajeunesse,  my  father.'  No. 
I'm  myself,  and  a  damn  good  blacksmith,  and  nothing 
else  am  I." 

"  Tut,  tut,  old  leather-belly,"  said  Gingras  the  shoe- 
maker, whose  liquor  had  mounted  high,  "  you'll  not 
need  to  work  now.  Madelinette's  got  double  fortune. 
She  gets  thousands  for  a  song,  and  she's  lady  of  the 
Manor  here.  What's  too  good  for  you,  tell  me  that, 
my  forgeron!  " 

"  Not  working  between  meals — that's  too  good  for 
me,  Gingras.  I'm  here  to  earn  my  bread  with  the 
hands  I  was  born  with,  and  to  eat  what  they  earn,  and 
live  by  it.  Let  a  man  live  according  to  his  gifts — ba- 
gosh! Till  I'm  sent  for,  'hat's  what  I'll  do;  and  when 
time's  up  I'll  take  my  hand  oflf  the  bellows,  and  my 
leather  apron  can  go  to  you,  Gingras,  for  boots  for  a 
bigger  fool  than  me." 

"  There's  only  one,"  said  Benoit  the  ne'er-do-weel, 
who  had  been  to  college  as  a  boy. 

"  Who's  that?  "  said  Muroc. 

"  You  wouldn't  know  his  name.  He's  trying  to  find 
eggs  in  last  year's  nest,"  answered  Benoit  with  a  leer. 

"  He  means  the  Seigneur,"  said  Muroc.  "  Look  to 
your  son-in-law,  Lajeunesse.     He's  kicking  up  a  dust 


i6  THE  LANE  THAT  HAD  NO  TURNING 

that'll  choke  Pontiac  yet.  It's  as  if  there  was  an  imp 
in  him,  driving  him  on." 

"  We've  had  enough  of  the  devil's  dust  here,"  said 
Lajeunesse.     "  Has  he  been  talking  to  you,  Muroc?  " 

Muroc  nodded.  "  Treason,  or  thereabouts.  Once, 
with  him  that's  dead  in  the  graveyard  yonder,  it  was 
France  we  were  to  save,  and  bring  back  the  Napoleons 
— I  have  my  sword  yet!  Now  it's  save  Quebec.  It's 
stand  alone  and  have  our  own  flag,  and  shout,  and 
light,  maybe,  to  be  free  of  England.  Independence, 
that's  it.  One  by  one  the  English  have  had  to  go  from 
Pontiac.     Now  it's  M'sieu'  Medallion." 

"  There's  Shandon  the  Irishman  gone  too.  M'sieu* 
sold  him  up  and  shipped  him  off,"  said  Gingras  the 
shoemaker. 

"  Ticns!  The  Seigneur  gave  him  fifty  dollars  when 
he  left,  to  help  him  along-— he  smacks  and  then  kisses, 
does  M'sieu'  Racine!  " 

"  We've  to  pay  tribute  to  the  Seigneur  every  year,  as 
they  did  in  the  days  of  Vaudreuil  and  Louis  the  Saint," 
said  Duclosse.  "  I've  got  my  notice — a  bag  of  meal 
under  the  big  tree  at  the  Manor  door." 

"  I've  to  bring  a  pullet  and  a  bag  of  charcoal,"  said 
Muroc.     "  'Tis  the  rights  of  the  Seigneur  as  of  old." 

"  Ticns!  It  is  my  mind,"  said  Benoit,  **  that  a  man 
that  nature  twists  in  back,  or  leg,  or  body  anywhere, 
gets  a  twist  in's  brain  too.  There's  Parpon  the  dwarf 
— God  knows,  Parpon  is  a  nut  to  crack! " 

"  But  Parpon  isn't  married  to  the  greatest  singer  in 
the  world,  though  she's  only  the  daughter  of  old 
leather-belly  there!"  said  Gingras. 

"  Something  doesn't  come  of  nothing,  snub-nose!  " 
said  Lajeunesse.  "  Mark  you,  I  was  born  a  man  of 
fame,  walking  bloody  paths  to  glory,  but  by  the  grace 


!|i 


i\    I 


THE  LANE  THAT  HAD  NO  TURNING  17 


of  Heaven  and  my  baptism  I  became  a  forgeron.  Let 
others  ride  to  glory,  I'll  shoe  their  horses  for  the  gal- 
lop." 

"  You'll  be  in  Parliament  yet,  Lajeunesse,"  said  Du- 
closse  the  mealman,  who  had  been  dozing  on  a  pile  of 
untired  cart-wheels. 

"  I'll  be  hanged  first,  comrade!  " 

"  One  in  the  family  at  a  time,"  said  Muroc.  "  There's 
the  Seigneur.     He's  going  into  Parliament!  " 

"  He's  a  magistrate — that's  enough!  "  said  Duclossc. 
"  He's  started  the  court  under  the  big  tree,  as  the  Sei- 
gneurs did  two  hundred  years  ago.  He'll  want  a  gibbet 
and  a  gallows  next." 

"  I  should  think  he'd  stay  at  home  and  not  take  more 
on  his  shoulders!  "  said  the  one-eyed  shoemaker. 

Without  a  word  Lajeunesse  threw  a  dish  of  water  in 
Gingras'  face.  This  reference  to  the  Seigneur's  de- 
formity was  unpalatable. 

Gingras  had  not  recovered  from  his  discomfiture 
when  all  were  startled  by  the  distant  blare  of  a  bugle. 
They  rushed  to  the  door,  and  were  met  by  Parpon  the 
dwarf,  who  announced  that  a  regiment  of  soldiers  was 
marching  on  the  village. 

"  'Tis  what  I  expected  after  that  meeting,  and  the 
Governor's  visit,  and  the  lily-flag  of  France  on  the 
Manor,  and  the  bodyguard  and  the  carbines,"  said 
Muroc,  nervously. 

"  We're  all  in  trouble  again — sure,"  said  Benoit, 
and  drained  his  glass  to  the  lasc  drop.  "  Some  of  us 
will  go  to  gaol." 

The  coming  of  the  militia  had  been  wholly  unex- 
pected by  the  people  of  Pontiac,  but  the  cause  was  not 
far  to  seek.  Ever  since  the  Governor's  visit  there  had 
been  sinister  rumours  abroad  concerning  Louis  Racine, 


I 


i8  THE  LANE  THAT  HAD  NO  TURNING 

which  the  Cure  and  the  Avocat  and  others  had  taken 
pains  to  contradict.  It  was  known  that  the  Seigneur 
had  been  requested  to  disband  his  so-called  company 
of  soldiers  with  their  ancient  livery  and  their  modern 
arms,  and  to  give  them  up.  He  had  disbanded  the 
corps,  but  he  had  not  given  up  the  arms,  and,  for  rea- 
sons unknown,  the  Government  had  not  pressed  the 
point,  so  far  as  the  world  knew.  But  it  had  decided  to 
hold  a  district  drill  in  this  far-off  portion  of  the  pro- 
vince; and  this  summer  morning  two  thousand  men 
marched  upon  the  town  and  through  it,  horse,  foot, 
and  commissariat,  and  Pontiac  was  roused  out  of  the 
last-century  romance  the  Seigneur  had  sought  to  con- 
tinue, to  face  the  actual  presence  of  modern  force 
and  the  machinery  of  war.  Twice  before  had  British 
soldiers  marched  into  the  town,  the  last  time  but  a  few 
years  agone,  when  blood  had  been  shed  on  the  stones 
in  front  of  the  parish  church.  But  here  were  large 
numbers  of  well-armed  men  from  the  Eastern  parishes, 
English  and  French,  with  four  hundred  regulars  to 
leaven  the  mass.  Lajeunesse  knew  only  too  well  what 
this  demonstration  meant. 

Before  the  last  soldier  had  passed  through  the  street, 
he  was  on  his  way  to  the  Seigneury. 

He  found  Madelinette  alone  in  the  great  dining- 
room,  mending  a  rent  in  the  British  flag,  which  she  was 
preparing  for  a  flag-staff.  When  she  saw  him,  she 
dropped  the  flag,  as  if  startled,  came  quickly  to  him, 
took  both  his  hands  in  hers,  and  kissed  his  cheek. 

"  Wonder  of  wonders!  "  she  said. 

"  It's  these  soldiers!  "  he  replied  shortly. 

"  What  of  them?  "  she  asked  brightly. 

"  Do  you  mean  to  say  you  don't  know  what  their 
coming  here  means?  "  he  asked. 


.:i 


[NG 

I  taken 
ngneur 
impany 
nodern 
led  the 
for  rea- 
sed  the 
cided  to 
:he  pro- 
nd  men 
se,  foot, 
It  of  the 
;  to  con- 
rn  force 
1  British 
)ut  a  few 
le  stones 
ire  large 
parishes, 
rulars  to 
veil  what 

he  street, 

dining- 

she  was 

|him,  she 

to  him, 

;ek. 


THE  LANE  THAT  HAD  NO  TURNING  19 

"  They  must  drill  somewhere,  and  they  are  honour- 
ing Pontiac,"  she  replied  gaily,  but  her  face  flushed  as 
she  bent  over  the  flag  again. 

He  came  and  stood  in  front  of  her.  "  I  don't  know 
what's  in  your  mind,  I  don't  know  what  you  mean  to 
do,  but  I  do  know  that  M'sieu'  Racine  is  making 
trouble  here,  and  out  of  it  you'll  come  more  hurt  than 
anybody." 

"  What  has  Louis  done?  " 

"  What  has  he  done!  He's  been  stirring  up  feeling 
against  the  British.  What  has  he  done ! — Look  at  the 
silly  customs  he's  got  out  of  old  coffins,  to  make  us 
believe  they're  alive!  Why  did  he  ever  try  to  marry 
you?  Why  did  you  ever  marry  him?  You  are  the 
great  singer  of  the  world.  He's  a  mad  hunchback 
habitant  Seigneur!  " 

She  stamped  her  foot  indignantly,  but  presently  she 
ruled  herself  to  composure  and  said  quietly:  "  He  is  my 
husband.  He  is  a  brave  man,  with  foolish  dreams." 
Then  with  a  sudden  burst  of  tender  feeling:  "  Oh, 
father,  father,  can't  you  see  I  loved  him — that  is  why 
I  married  him.  You  ask  me  what  am  I  going  to  do?  I 
am  going  to  give  the  rest  of  my  life  to  him.  I  am  going 
to  stay  with  him,  and  be  to  him  all  that  he  may  never 
have  in  this  world,  never — never.  I  am  going  to  be 
to  him  what  my  mother  was  to  you,  a  slave  to  the  end 
— a  slave  who  loved  you,  and  who  gave  you  a  daughter 
who  will  do  the  same  for  her  husband " 


•  f 


"  No  matter  what  he  does  or  is — eh? " 
"  No  matter  what  he  is!  " 


hat  their 


Lajeunesse  gasped.  "  You  will  give  up  singing! 
Not  sing  again  before  kings  and  Courts,  and  not  earn 
ten  thousand  dollars  a  month — more  than  I've  earned 
in  twenty  years!     You  don't  mean  that,  Mad'linette!  " 


..il^ 


V 


/ 


ri 


.1 

Vitt 

/  < 


20  THE  LANE  THAT  HAD  NO  TURNING 

He  was  hoarse  with  feeling,  and  held  out  his  hand 
pleadingly.  To  him  it  seemed  that  his  daughter  was 
mad;  that  she  was  throwing  her  life  away. 

"  I  mean  that,  father,"  she  answered  quietly. 
*'  There  are  things  worth  more  than  money." 

"  You  don't  mean  to  say  that  you  can  love  him  as 
he  is.     It  isn't  natural.     But  no,  it  isn't!  " 

"  What  would  you  have  said  if  anyone  had  asked 
you  if  you  loved  my  mother  that  last  year  of  her  life, 
when  she  was  a  cripple,  and  we  wheeled  her  about  in 
a  chair  you  made  for  her!  " 

"  Don't  say  any  more,"  he  said  slowly,  and  took  up 
his  hat,  and  kept  turning  it  round  in  his  hand.  "  But 
you'll  prevent  him  getting  into  trouble  with  the  Gover'- 
ment?  "  he  urged  at  last. 

"  I  have  done  what  I  could,"  she  answered.  Then 
with  a  little  gasp :  "  They  came  to  arrest  him  a  fortnight 
ago,  but  I  said  they  should  not  enter  the  house.  Havel 
and  I  prevented  them — refused  to  let  them  enter.  The 
men  did  not  know  what  to  do,  and  so  they  went 
back.  And  now  this — !  "  she  pointed  to  where  the 
soldiers  were  pitching  their  tents  in  the  valley  below. 
"  Since  then  Louis  has  done  nothing  to  give  trou- 
ble.    He  only  writes  and  dreams.     If  he  would  but 

dream  and  no  more !  "  she  added  half  under  her 

breath. 

"  We've  dreamt  too  much  in  Pontiac  already,"  said 
Lajeunesse,  shaking  his  head. 

Madelinette  reached  up  her  hand  and  laid  it  on  his 
shaggy  black  hair.  "  You  are  a  good  little  father,  big 
smithy-man!  "  she  said  lovingly.  "  You  make  me  think 
of  the  strong  men  in  the  Niebelungen  legends.  It 
must  be  a  big  horse  that  will  take  you  to  Walhalla  with 
the  heroes,"  she  added. 


H( 


THE  LANE  THAT  HAD  NO  TURNING  21 

"Such  notions — there  in  your  head!"  he  laughed. 
"  Try  to  frighten  me  with  your  big  names — hcinf  " 

There  was  a  new  look  in  the  face  of  father  and  of 
daughter.  No  mist  or  cloud  was  between  them.  The 
things  they  had  long  wished  to  say  were  uttered  at  last. 
A  new  faith  was  established  between  them. 

Since  her  return  they  had  laughed  and  talked  as  of 
old  when  they  had  met,  though  her  own  heart  was  ach- 
ing, and  he  was  bitter  against  the  Seigneur.  She  had 
kept  him  and  the  whole  parish  in  good  humour  by  her 
unconventional  ways,  as  though  people  were  not  begin- 
ning to  make  pilgrimages  to  Pontiac  to  see  her — people 
who  stared  at  the  name  over  the  blacksmith's  door,  and 
eyed  her  curiously,  or  lay  in  wait  about  the  Scigneury, 
that  they  might  get  a  glimpse  of  Madame  and  her  de- 
formed husband.  Out  in  the  world  where  she  was  now 
so  important  the  newspapers  told  strange  romantic 
tales  of  the  great  singer,  wove  wild  and  wonderful  le- 
gends of  her  life.  To  her  it  did  not  matter.  If  she 
knew,  she  did  not  heed.  If  she  heeded  it — even  in  her 
heart — she  shov/ed  nothing  of  it  before  the  world.  She 
knew  that  soon  there  would  be  wilder  tales  still,  when  it 
was  announced  that  she  was  bidding  farewell  to  the 
great  working  world,  and  would  live  on  in  retirement. 
She  had  made  up  her  mind  quite  how  the  announce- 
ment should  read,  and,  once  it  was  given  out,  nothing 
would  induce  her  to  change  her  mind.  Her  life  was 
now  the  life  of  the  Seigneur. 

A  struggle  in  her  heart  went  on,  but  she  fought  it 
down.  The  lure  of  a  great  temptation  from  that  far- 
off  outside  world  was  before  her,  but  she  had  resolved 
her  heart  against  it.  In  his  rough  but  tender  way  her 
father  now  understood,  and  that  was  a  comfort  to  her. 
He  felt  what  he  could  not  reason  upon  or  put  in  ade- 


Fr 


22  THE  LANE  THAT  HAD  NO  TURNING 

quate  words.  But  the  confidence  made  him  happy  and 
his  eyes  said  so  to  her  now. 

"  See,  big  smithy-man!  "  she  said  gaily,  "  soon  will 
be  the  fete  of  St.  Jean  Baptiste,  and  we  shall  all  be 
happy  then.  Louis  has  promised  me  to  make  a  speech 
that  will  not  be  against  the  English,  but  only  words 
which  will  tell  how  dear  the  old  land  is  to  us." 

"  Ten  to  one  against  it!  "  said  Lajeunesse  anxiously. 
Then  he  brightened  as  he  saw  a  shadow  cross  her  face. 
"  But  you  can  make  him  do  anything — as  you  always 
made  me,"  he  added,  shaking  his  tousled  head  and 
taking  with  a  droll  eagerness  the  glass  of  wine  she 
offered  him. 


iiii 


i!  I 


1 

'1  ,    ■] 

^'1  !    ; 

; 
1         t 

; 

■    '         i 

! 

\.   ; 

1 

jijii 

i 

i 

^^ 

ING 
tppy  and 

oon  will 
.11  all  be 
a  speech 
ly  words 

nxiously. 
her  face. 
lU  always 
lead  and 
wine  she 


CHAPTER   III 

MAN  TO  MAN  AND  STEEL  TO  STEEL 

ONE  evening  a  fortnight  later  Louis  Racine  and 
George  Fournel  the  Englishman  stood  face  to 
face  in  the  library  of  the  Manor  House.  There  was 
antagonism  and  animosity  in  the  attitude  of  both. 
Apart  from  the  fact  that  Louis  had  succeeded  to  the 
Seigneury  promised  to  Fournel,  and  sealed  to  him  by 
a  reputed  will  which  had  never  been  found,  there  was 
cause  for  hatred  on  the  Englishman's  part.  Fournel 
had  been  an  incredibly  successful  man.  Things  had 
come  his  way — wealth,  and  the  power  that  wealth 
brings.  He  had  but  two  set-backs,  and  the  man 
before  him  in  the  Manor  House  of  Pontiac  was  the 
cause  of  both.  The  last  rebuff  had  been  the  succession 
to  the  Seigneury,  which,  curious  as  it  might  seem,  had 
bee.  the  cherished  dream  of  the  rich  man's  retirement. 
It  had  been  his  fancy  to  play  the  Seigneur,  the  lord 
magnificent  and  bountiful,  and  he  had  determined  to 
use  wealth  and  all  manner  of  influence  to  have  the  title 
of  Baron  Pontiac  revived — it  had  been  obsolete  for  a 
hundred  years.  He  leaned  towards  the  grace  of  an 
hereditary  dignity,  as  other  retired  millionaires  cul- 
tivate art  and  letters,  vainly  imagining  that  they  can 
wheedle  civilisation  and  the  humanities  into  giving 
them  what  they  do  not  possess  by  nature,  and  fool  the 
world  at  the  same  time. 
The  loss  of  the  Seigneury  had  therefore  cut  deep,  but 


I 


24   THE  LANE  THAT  HAD  NO  TURNING 


III 
II 


m     <> 


there  had  been  a  more  hateful  affront  still.  Four  years 
before,  Louis  Racine,  when  spasmodically  practising 
law  in  Quebec,  had  been  approached  by  two  poor 
Frenchmen  who  laid  claim  to  thousands  of  acres  of  land 
which  a  Land  Company,  whereof  George  Fournel  was 
president,  was  publicly  exploiting  for  the  woods  and 
valuable  minerals  discovered  on  it.  The  Land  Com- 
pany had  been  composed  of  Englishmen  only.  Louis 
Racine,  reactionary  and  imaginative,  brilliant  and  free 
from  sordidness,  and  openly  hating  the  English,  had 
taken  up  the  case,  and  for  two  years  fought  it  tooth  and 
nail  without  pay  or  reward.  The  matter  had  become  a 
cause ct'/i'dre,  the  Land  Company  engaging  the  greatest 
lawyers  in  both  the  English  and  French  provinces.  In 
the  Supreme  Court  the  case  was  lost  to  Louis'  clients. 
He  took  it  over  to  the  Privy  Council  in  London  and 
carried  it  through  triumphantly  and  alone,  proving  his 
clients'  title.  His  two  poor  Frenchmen  regained  their 
land.  In  payment  he  would  accept  nothing  save  the 
ordinary  fees,  as  though  it  were  some  petty  case  in  a 
county  court.  He  had,  however,  made  a  reputation, 
which  he  had  seemed  not  to  value,  save  as  a  means  of 
showing  hostility  to  the  governing  race,  and  the 
Seigneury  of  Pontiac,  when  it  fell  to  him,  had  more 
charms  for  him  than  any  celebrity  to  be  won  at  the  bar. 
His  love  of  the  history  of  his  country  was  a  mania  with 
him,  and  he  looked  forward,  on  arriving  at  Pontiac,  to 
being  the  apostle  of  French  independence  on  the  Con- 
tinent. Madelinette  had  crossed  his  path  in  his  most 
enthusiastic  moment,  when  his  brilliant  tongue  and 
great  dreams  surrounded  him  with  a  kind  of  glamour. 
He  had  caught  her  to  himself  out  of  the  girl's  first  tri- 
umph, when  her  nature,  tried  by  the  strain  of  her  firs'- 
challenge  to  the  judgment  of  the  world,  cried  out  for 


:ng 


THE  LANE  THAT  HAD  NO  TURNING  25 


ir  years 
ictising 
o  poor 
of  land 
ncl  was 
Dds  and 
d  Com- 
Louis 
and  free 
ish,  had 
)oth  and 
ecome  a 
greatest 
ices.    In 
i'  clients, 
idon  and 
)ving  his 
ned  their 
save  the 
case  in  a 
putation, 
means  of 
and   the 
lad  more 
.t  the  bar. 
ania  with 
ontiac,  to 
the  Con- 
his  most 
igue  and 
glamour. 
s  first  tri- 
f  her  firs*- 
d  out  for 


I 


rest,  for  Pontiac  and  home,  and  all  that  was  of  the  old 
life  among  her  people. 

Fourncl's  antipathy  had  only  been  increased  by  the 
fact  that  Louis  Racine  had  married  the  now  famous 
Madelinette,  and  his  animosity  extended  to  her. 

It  was  not  in  him  to  understand  the  nature  of  the 
Frenchman,  volatile,  moody,  chivalrous,  unreasonable, 
the  slave  of  ideas,  the  victim  of  sentiment.  Not  under- 
standing, when  he  began  to  see  that  he  could  not  attain 
the  object  of  hf*^  visit,  which  was  to  secure  some  relics 
of  the  late  Seigneur's  household,  he  chose  to  be  dis- 
dainful. 

"  You  are  bound  to  give  me  these  things  I  ask  for,  as 
a  m.atter  of  justice — if  you  know  what  justice  means," 
he  said  at  last. 

"  You  should  be  aware  of  that,"  answered  the  Sei- 
gneur with  a  kindling  look.  He  felt  every  glance  of 
Fournel's  eye  a  contemptuous  comment  upon  his  de- 
formity, now  so  egregious  and  humiliating.  "  I  taught 
you  justice  once." 

Fournel  was  not  to  be  moved  from  his  phlegm.  He 
knew  he  could  torture  the  man  before  him,  and  he  was 
determined  to  do  so,  if  he  did  not  get  his  way  upon  the 
matter  of  his  visit. 

"  You  can  teach  me  justice  tw::e  and  be  thanked 
once,"  he  answered.  "  These  things  I  ask  for  were 
much  prized  by  my  friend  the  late  Seigneur.  I  was  led 
to  expect  that  this  Seigneury  and  all  in  it  and  on  it 
should  be  mine.  I  know  it  was  intended  so.  The  law 
gives  it  you  instead.  Your  technical  claim  has  over- 
ridden my  rights — you  have  a  gift  for  making  success- 
tul  technical  claims.  But  these  old  personal  relics,  of 
no  monetary  value — you  can  waive  your  avaricious  and 
indelicate  claim  to  them."    He  added  the  last  words 


26  THE  LANE  THAT  HAD  NO  TURNING 


I;      ,    1 


!  U 


V 

i   1 

■ 

\    ; 

L, 

1 

with  a  malicious  smile,  for  the  hardening  look  in  Ra- 
cine's face  told  him  his  request  was  hopeless,  and  he 
could  not  resist  the  temptation  to  put  the  matter  with 
cutting  force.     Racine  rose  to  the  bait  with  a  jump. 

"  Not  one  single  thing — not  one  single  solitary 
thing !  " 

"  The  sentiment  is  strong,  if  the  grammar  is  bad," 
interrupted  Fournel,  meaning  to  wound  wherever  he 
found  an  opportunity,  for  the  Seigneur's  deformity  ex- 
cited in  him  no  pity;  it  rather  incensed  him  against  the 
man,  as  an  affront  to  decency  and  to  his  own  just  claims 
to  the  honours  the  Frenchman  enjoyed.  It  was  a  petty 
resentment,  but  George  Fournel  had  set  his  heart  upon 
playing  the  grand-seigneur  over  the  Frenchmen  of 
Pontiac,  and  of  ultimately  leaving  his  fortune  to  the 
parish,  if  they  all  fell  down  and  worshipped  him  and  his 
"  golden  calf." 

"  The  grammar  is  suitable  to  the  case,"  retorted  the 
Seigneur,  his  voice  rising.  "  Everything  is  mine  by 
law,  and  everything  I  will  keep.  If  you  think  different, 
produce  a  will!  produce  a  will! " 

Truth  was,  Louis  Racine  would  rather  have  ^ ;  -ted 
with  the  Seigneury  itself  than  with  these  relicy  asked 
for.  They  were  reminiscent  of  the  time  when  France 
and  her  golden  lilies  brooded  over  his  land,  of  the  days 
when  Louis  Quatorze  was  king.  He  cherished  every- 
thing that  had  association  with  the  days  of  the  old 
r/gime,  as  a  miser  hugs  his  gold,  or  a  woman  her 
jewels.  The  request  to  give  them  up  to  this  unsympa- 
thetic Englishman,  who  valued  them  because  they  had 
belonged  to  his  friend  the  late  Seigneur,  only  exas- 
perated him. 

"  I  am  ready  to  pay  the  highest  possible  price  for 
them,  as  I  have  said,"  urged  the  Englishman,  realising 


IING 


THE  LANE  THAT  HAD  NO  TURNING    27 


:  in  Ra- 

and  he 
ter  with 
jump. 

soHtary 

is  bad," 
rever  he 
mity  ex- 
ainst  the 
St  claims 
IS  a  petty 
;art  upon 
hmen  of 
le  to  the 
n  and  his 

orted  the 
mine  by 
different, 

Ive  ^;-ted 
icy  asked 
n  France 
[ the  days 
ed  every- 
f  the  old 
Dman  her 
unsympa- 
they  had 
inly  exas- 

price  for 
,  realising 


as  he  spoke  that  it  was  futile  to  urge  the  sale  upon  that 
basis. 

**  Money  cannot  buy  the  things  that  Frenchmen  love. 
We  are  not  a  race  of  hucksters!  "  retorted  the  Seigneur. 

"  That  accounts  for  your  envious  dispositions,  then. 
You  can't  buy  what  you  want — you  love  such  curious 
things,  I  assume!  So  you  play  the  dog  in  the  manger 
and  won't  let  other  decent  folk  buy  what  they  want." 
He  wilfully  distorted  the  other's  meaning,  and  was  de- 
lighted to  see  the  Seigneur's  fingers  twitch  with  fury. 
"  But  since  you  can't  buy  the  things  you  love — and  you 
seem  to  think  you  should — how  do  you  get  them?  Do 
you  come  by  them  honestly,  or  do  you  work  miracles? 
When  a  spider  makes  love  to  his  lady  he  dances  before 
her  to  infatuate  her,  and  then  in  a  moment  of  her  de- 
lighted aberration  snatches  at  her  affections.  It  is  the 
way  of  the  spider,  then?  " 

With  a  snarl  as  of  a  wild  beast,  Louis  Racine  sprang 
forward  and  struck  Fournel  in  the  face  with  his 
clenched  fist.  Then,  as  Fournel,  blinded,  staggered 
back  upon  the  book-shelves,  he  snatched  two  antique 
swords  from  the  wall.  Throwing  one  on  the  floor  in 
front  of  the  Englishman,  he  ran  to  the  door  and  locked 
it,  and  'urned  round,  the  sword  grasped  firmly  in  his 
hand,  and  white  with  rage. 

"  Spider !  Spider !  By  Heaven,  you  shall  have  the 
spider  dance  before  you!  "  he  said  hoarsely.  He  had 
mistaken  Fournel 's  meaning.  He  had  put  the  most 
horrible  construction  upon  it.  He  thought  that  Four- 
nel referred  to  his  deformity,  and  had  ruthlessly 
dragged  in  Madelinette  as  well. 

He  was  like  a  being  distraught.  His  long  brown 
hair  was  tossed  over  his  blanched  forehead  and  piercing 
black  eyes.     His  head  was  thrown  forward  even  more 


28  THE  LANE  THAT  HAD  NO  TURNING 


,1* ' 
11,1 


than  his  deformity  compelled,  his  white  teeth  showed 
in  a  grimace  of  hatred;  he  was  half-crouched,  like  an 
animal  ready  to  spring. 

"  Take  up  the  sword,  or  I'll  run  you  through  the 
heart  where  you  stand!"  he  continued,  in  a  hoarse 
whisper.  "  I  will  give  you  till  I  Can  count  three.  Then, 
by  the  God  in  Heaven !  " 

Fournel  felt  that  he  had  to  deal  with  a  man  de- 
mented. The  blow  he  had  received  had  laid  open  the 
flesh  on  his  cheek-bone  and  blood  was  flowing  from  the 
wound.  Never  in  his  life  before  had  he  been  so  humiil- 
ated.  And  by  a  Frenchman!  it  roused  every  instinct 
of  race-hatred  in  him.  Yet  he  wanted  not  co  go  at 
him  with  a  sword,  but  with  his  two  honest  hands  and 
beat  him  into  a  whining  submission.  But  the  man  was 
deformed,  he  had  none  of  his  own  robust  strength — 
he  was  not  to  be  struck,  but  to  be  tossed  out  of  the  way 
like  an  offending  child. 

He  stanched  the  blood  from  hh  face,  and  made  a 
step  forward  without  a  word,  determined  not  to  fight, 
but  to  take  the  weapon  from  the  other's  hands. 

"  Coward !  "  said  the  Seigneur.  "  You  dare  not  fight 
with  the  sword.  With  the  sword  we  are  even.  I  am 
as  strong  as  you  there — stronger,  and  I  will  have  your 
blood.  Coward!  Coward!  Coward!  I  will  give  you 
till  I  count  three.    One!    .     .     .     Two!    .     .     ." 

Fournel  did  not  stir.  He  could  not  make  up  his 
mind  what  to  do.  Cry  out?  No  one  could  come  in 
timt,  to  prevent  the  onslaught — and  onslaught  there 
would  be,  he  knew.  There  was  a  merciless  hatred  in 
the  Seigneur's  face,  a  deadly  purpose  in  his  eyes;  the 
wild  determination  of  a  man  who  did  not  care  whether 
he  lived  or  died,  ready  to  throw  himself  upon  a  hun- 
dred in  his  hungry  rage.    It  seemed  so  wild,  so  mon- 


NG 


THE  LANE  THAT  HAD  NO  TURNING    29 


,howed 
like  an 


lan  de- 
pen  the 
rom  the 
hnmiii- 
instinct 
D  go  at 
nds  and 
nan  was 
ength — 
the  way 

made  a 
to  fight, 
s. 

lot  fight 
I  am 
ive  your 
jive  you 

t  Up  his 
come  in 

It  there 
latred  in 
;yes;  the 

whether 
1  a  hun- 

80  mon- 


strous that  the  beautiful  summer  day,  through  which 
came  the  sharp  whetting  of  the  scythe,  the  song  of  the 
birds,  and  the  smell  of  ripening  fruit  and  grain,  should 
be  invaded  by  this  tragic  absurdity,  this  human  fury 
which  must  spend  itself  in  blood. 

Fournel's  mind  was  conscious  of  this  feeling,  this 
sense  of  futile,  foolish  waste  and  disfigurement,  even  as 
the  Seigneur  said  "  Three! "  and,  rushing  forward, 
thrust. 

As  Fournel  saw  the  blade  spring  at  him,  he  dropped 
on  one  knee,  caught  it  with  his  left  hand  as  it  came,  and 
wrenched  it  aside.  The  blade  lacerated  his  fingers  and 
his  palm,  but  he  did  not  let  go  till  he  had  seized  the 
sword  at  his  feet  with  his  right  hand.  Then,  springing 
up  with  it,  he  stepped  back  quickly  and  grasped  his 
weapon  fiercely  enough  now. 

Yet,  enraged  as  he  was,  he  had  no  wish  to  fight;  to 
involve  himself  in  a  fracas  which  might  end  in  tragedy 
and  the  courts  of  the  land.  It  was  a  high  price  to  pay 
for  any  satisfaction  he  might  have  in  this  affair.  If 
the  Seigneur  were  killed  in  the  encounter — he  must 
defend  himself  now — what  a  miserable  notoriety  and 
possible  legal  penalty  and  public  punishment!  For 
who  could  vouch  for  the  truth  of  his  story?  Even  if  he 
wounded  Racine  only,  what  a  wretched  story  to  go 
abroad;  that  he  had  fought  with  a  hunchback — a 
hunchback  who  knew  the  use  of  the  sword,  which  he 
did  not,  but  still  a  hunchback! 

"  Stop  this  nonsense!  "  he  said,  as  Louis  Racine  pre- 
pared to  attack  again.  "  Don't  be  a  fooL  The  game 
isn't  worth  the  candle." 

"  One  of  us  does  not  leave  this  room  alive!  "  said  the 
Seigneur.  "  You  care  for  life.  You  love  it,  and  you 
can't  buy  what  yon  love  from  me.     I  don't  care  for  life, 


t 


30  THE  LANE  THAT  HAD  NO  TURNING 


and  I  would  gladly  die  to  see  your  blood  flow.  Look, 
it's  flowing  down  your  face;  it's  dripping  from  your 
h?nd,  and  there  shall  be  more  dripping  soon!  On 
guard! " 

He  suddenly  attacked  with  a  fierce  energy,  forcing 
Fournel  back  upon  the  wall.  He  was  not  a  first-class 
swordsman,  but  he  had  far  more  knowledge  of  the 
weapon  than  his  opponent,  and  he  had  no  scruple  about 
using  his  knowledge.  Fournel  fought  with  desperate 
alertness,  yet  awkwardly,  and  he  could  not  attack;  it 
was  all  that  he  could  do,  all  that  he  knew  how  to  do, 
to  defend  himself.  Twice  again  did  the  Seigneur's 
weapon  draw  blood,  once  from  the  shoulder  and  once 
from  the  leg  of  his  opponent,  and  the  blood  was  flow- 
ing from  each  wound.  After  the  second  injury  they 
stood  panting  for  a  moment.  Now  the  outside  world 
was  shut  out  from  Fournel's  senses,  as  it  was  from 
Louis  Racine's.  The  only  world  they  knew  was  this 
cool  room,  whose  oak  floors  were  browned  by  the  slow 
searching  stains  of  Time,  and  darkened  by  the  footsteps 
of  six  generations  that  had  come  and  gone  through  the 
old  house.  The  books  along  the  walls  seemed  to  cry 
out  against  the  unseemly  and  unholy  strife.  But  now 
both  men  were  in  that  atmosphere  of  supreme  egoism 
where  only  their  two  selves  moved,  and  where  the  only 
thing  that  mattered  on  earth  was  the  issue  of  this  strife. 
Fournel  could  only  think  of  how  to  save  his  life,  and  to 
do  that  he  must  become  the  aggressor,  for  his  wmnds 
were  bleeding  hard,  and  he  must  have  more  wounds, 
if  the  fight  went  on  without  harm  to  the  Seigneur. 

"  You  know  now  what  it  is  to  insult  a  Frenchman. 
On  guard!  "  again  cried  the  Seigneur  in  a  shriller  voice, 
for  everything  in  him  was  pitched  to  the  highest  note. 

He  again  attacked,  and  the  sound  of  the  large  swords 


quK 


THE  LANE  THAT  HAD  NO  TURNING  31 

meeting  clashed  on  the  soft  air.  As  they  struggled,  a 
voice  came  ringing  through  the  passages,  singing  a  bar 
from  an  opera-  - 

"  Oh  eager  golden  day,  Oh  happy  evening  hour! 

Behold  my  lover  cometh  from  fields  of  wrath  and  hate! 
Sheathed  is  his  sword;  he  cometh  to  my  bower; 
In  war  he  findeth  honour,  and  love  within  the  gate." 


The  voice  came  nearer  and  nearer.  It  pierced  the 
tragic  separateness  of  the  scene  of  blood.  It  reached 
the  ears  of  the  Seigneur,  and  a  look  of  pain  shot  across 
his  face.  Fournel  was  only  dimly  aware  of  the  voice, 
for  he  was  hard  pressed,  and  it  seemed  to  come  from 
infinite  distances.  Presently  the  voice  stopped,  and 
some  one  tried  the  door  of  the  room. 

It  was  Madelinette.  Astonished  at  finding  it  locked, 
she  stood  still  a  moment  uncertain  what  to  do.  Then 
the  sounds  of  the  struggle  within  came  to  her  ears.  She 
shook  the  door,  leaned  her  shoulders  against  it,  and 
called  "Louis!  Louis!"  Suddenly  she  darted  away, 
found  Havel  the  faithful  servant  in  the  passage,  and 
brought  him  swiftly  to  the  door.  The  man  sprang  upon 
it,  striking  with  his  shoulder.  The  lock  gave,  the  door 
fiew  open,  and  Madelinette  stepped  swiftly  into  the 
room,  in  time  to  see  George  Fournel  sway  and  fall,  his 
sword  rattling  on  the  hard  oak  floor. 

"  Oh,  what  have  you  done,  Louis! "  she  cried,  then 
added  hurriedly  to  Havel,  "  Draw  the  blind  there,  shut 
the  door,  and  tell  Madame  Marie  to  bring  some  water 
quickly! " 

The  silent  servant  vanished,  and  she  dropped  on  her 
knees  beside  the  bleeding  and  insensible  man,  and  lifted 
his  head. 


I 


■V  ili 


32  THE  LANE  THAT  HAD  NO  TURNING 

"  He  insulted  you  and  me,  and  I've  killed  him, 
Madclinette,"  said  Louis  hoarsely. 

A  horrified  look  came  to  her  face  and  she  hurriedly 
and  tremblingly  opened  Fournel's  waistcoat  and  shirt, 
and  felt  his  heart. 

She  was  freshly  startled  by  a  struggle  behind  her,  and, 
turning  quickly,  she  saw  Madame  Marie  holding  the 
Seigneur's  arm  to  prevent  him  from  ending  his  own  life. 

She  sprang  up  and  laid  her  hand  upon  her  husband's 
arm.  "  He  is  not  dead — you  need  not  do  it,  Louis," 
she  said  quietly.  There  was  no  alarm,  no  undue  excite- 
ment in  her  face  now.  She  was  acting  with  good  pres- 
ence of  mind.  A  new  sense  was  working  in  her. 
Something  had  gone  from  her  suddenly  where  her  hus- 
band was  concerned,  and  something  else  had  taken  its 
place.  An  infinite  pity,  a  bitter  sorrow,  and  a  gentle 
command  were  in  her  eyes  all  at  once — new  vistas  of 
life  opened  before  her,  all  in  an  instant. 

"  He  is  not  dead,  and  there  is  no  need  to  kill  yourself, 
Louis,"  she  repeated,  and  her  voice  had  a  command  iu 
it  that  was  not  to  be  gainsaid.  "  Since  you  have  vindi- 
cated your  honour,  you  will  now  help  me  to  set  this 
business  right." 

Madame  Marie  was  on  her  knees  beside  the  insen- 
sible  man.  "  No,  he  is  not  dead,  thank  God !  "  she 
murmured,  and  while  Havel  stripped  the  arm  and  leg, 
she  poured  some  water  between  Fournel's  lips.  Her 
long  experience  as  the  Little  Chemist's  wife  served 
her  well  now. 

Now  that  the  excitement  was  over,  Louis  collapsed. 
He  swayed  and  would  have  fallen,  but  Madelinette 
caught  him,  helped  him  to  the  sofa,  and,  forcing  him 
gently  down  on  his  side,  adjusted  a  pillow  for  him,  and 
turned  to  the  wounded  man  again. 


\ 


NG 

d  him, 

irriedly 
d  shirt, 

ier,and, 
ing  the 
)wn  Hfe. 
isband's 
Louis," 
i  excite- 
od  pres- 
in  her. 
her  hus- 
:aken  its 
a  gentle 
vistas  of 

yourself, 

mand  in 

ve  vindi- 

set  this 

le  insen- 
d!"  she 
and  leg, 
IDS.  Her 
served 

ollapsed. 
delinette 
cing  him 
him,  and 


THE  LANE  THAT  HAD  NO  TURNING  33 

An  hour  went  busily  by  in  the  closely-curtained 
room,  and  at  last  George  Fournel,  conscious,  and  with 
wounds  well  bandaged,  sat  in  a  big  arm-chair,  glower- 
ing round  him.  At  his  first  coming-to,  Louis  Racine, 
at  his  wife's  insistence,  had  come  and  oflered  his  hand, 
and  made  apology  for  assaulting  him  in  his  own  house. 

Fournel's  reply  had  been  that  he  wanted  to  hear  no 
more  fool's  talk  and  to  have  no  more  fool's  doings,  and 
that  one  day  he  hoped  to  take  his  pay  for  the  day's  busi- 
ness in  a  satisfactory  way. 

Madelinette  made  no  apology,  said  nothing,  save  that 
she  hoped  he  would  remain  for  a  few  days  till  he  was 
recovered  enough  to  be  moved.  He  replied  that  he 
would  leave  as  soon  as  his  horses  were  ready,  and  re- 
fused to  take  food  or  drink  from  their  hands.  His  ser- 
vant was  brought  from  the  Louis  Quinze  Hotel,  and 
through  him  he  got  what  wasTti'feeded  for  refreshment, 
and  requested  that  no  one  of^he^household  should 
come  near  him.  At  night,  in  the  darkness,  he  took  his 
departure,  no  servant  of  the  household  in  attendance. 
But  as  he  got  into  the  carriage,  Madelinette  came 
quickly  to  him,  and  said: 

"  I  would  give  ten  years  of  my  life  to  undo  to-day's 
work!" 

"I  have  no  quarrel  with  you,  Madame!"  he  said 
gloomily,  raised  his  hat,  and  was  driven  away. 

3 


CHAPTER   IV 


MADELINETTE   MAKES   A   DISCOVERY 


!    1 


THE  national  fete  of  the  summer  was  over.  The 
day  had  been  successful,  more  successful  indeed 
than  any  within  the  memory  of  the  inhabitants ;  for  the 
English  and  French  soldiers  joined  in  the  festivities 
without  any  intrusion  of  racial  spirit,  but  in  the  very 
essence  and  soul  of  good-fellowship.  The  General  had 
called  at  the  Manor,  had  paid  his  respects  to  the  Sei- 
gneur, who  received  him  abstractedly  if  not  coolly,  but 
Madelinette  had  captured  his  imagination  and  his  sym- 
pathies. He  was  fond  of  music  for  an  Englishman, 
and  with  a  ravishing  charm  she  sang  for  him  a  berge- 
rette  of  the  eighteenth  century  and  then  a  ballad  of 
Shakespeare's  set  to  her  own  music.  She  was  so 
anxious  that  the  great  holiday  should  pass  off  with- 
out one  untoward  incident,  that  she  would  have 
resorted  to  any  fair  device  to  attain  the  desired  end. 
The  General  could  help  her  by  his  influence  and  in- 
structions, and  if  the  soldiers — regulars  and  militia — ■ 
joined  in  the  celebrations  harmoniously  and  with  good- 
will, a  long  step  would  be  made  towards  undoing  the 
harm  that  Louis  had  done  and  maybe  influencing  him 
towards  a  saner,  wiser  view  of  things.  He  had  changed 
much  since  the  fateful  day  when  he  had  forced  George 
Fournel  "^o  fight  him;  had  grov/n  more  silent,  and  had 
turned  grey.  His  eyes  had  become  by  turns  watchful 
and  suspicious,  gloomy  and  abstracted;  and  his  speech 


THE  LANE  THAT  HAD  NO  TURNING  35 


:r.    The 
1  indeed 
;  for  the 
^stivities 
the  very 
leral  had 
the  Sei- 
lolly,  but 
his  sym- 
fUshman, 
I  a  berge- 
Dallad  of 

was  so 
ofif  with- 
ild  have 
ired  end. 
;  and  in- 

miUtia — • 
ith  good- 

oing  the 
|cing  him 

changed 
George 

and  had 

watchful 

is  speech 


knew  the  same  variations;  now  bitter  and  cynical, 
now  sad  and  distant,  and  all  the  time  his  eyes  seemed 
to  grow  darker  and  his  face  paler.  But  however  moody 
and  variable  and  irascible  he  might  be  with  others,  how- 
ever unappeasable,  with  Madelinette  he  struggled  to  be 
gentle,  and  his  petulance  gave  way  under  the  intan- 
gible persuasiveness  of  her  words  and  will,  which  had 
the  effect  of  command.  Under  this  influence  he  had 
prepared  the  words  which  he  was  to  deliver  at  the 
fete.  They  were  full  of  veneration  for  past  traditions, 
but  were  not  at  variance  with  a  proper  loyalty  to  the 
flag  under  which  they  lived,  and  if  the  English  soldiery 
met  the  speech  with  genial  appreciation  the  day  might 
end  in  a  blessing— and  surely  blessings  were  overdue 
in  Madelinette's  life  in  Pontiac! 

It  had  been  as  she  worked  for  and  desired,  thanks  to 
herself  and  the  English  General's  sympathetic  help. 
Perhaps  his  love  of  music  made  him  better  understand 
what  she  wanted,  made  him  even  forgiving  of  the  Sei- 
gneur's strained  manner;  but  certain  it  is  that  the  day, 
begun  with  uneasiness  on  the  part  of  the  people  of 
Pontiac,  who  felt  themselves  under  surveillance,  ended 
in  great  good-feeling  and  harmless  revelry;  and  it  was 
also  certain  that  the  Seigneur's  speech  gained  him  an 
applause  that  surprised  him  and  momentarily  appeased 
his  vanity.  The  General  gave  him  a  guard  of  honour 
of  the  French  militia  in  keeping  with  his  position  as 
Seigneur,  and  this,  with  Madelinette's  presence  at  his 
elbow,  restrained  him  in  his  speech  when  he  would  have 
broken  from  the  limits  of  propriety  in  the  intoxica- 
tion of  his  eager  eloquence.  But  he  spoke  with  mode- 
ration, standing  under  the  British  Flag  on  the  plat- 
form, and  at  the  last  he  said : 

"  A  flag  not  our  own  floats  over  us  now;  guarantees 


36  THE  LANE  THAT  HAD  NO  TURNING 

us  against  the  malice  oi  the  world  and  assures  us  in  our 
laws  and  religion;  but  there  is  another  flag  which  in  our 
tearful  memories  is  as  dear  to  us  now  as  it  was  at  Caril- 
lon and  Levis.  It  is  the  flag  of  memory — of  language, 
and  of  race,  the  emblem  of  our  past  upon  our  hearth- 
stones; and  the  great  country  that  rules  us  does  not 
deny  us  reverence  to  it.  Seeing  it,  we  see  the  history 
of  our  race  from  Charlemagne  to  this  day,  and  we  have 
a  pride  in  that  history  which  England  does  not  rebuke, 
a  pride  which  is  just  and  right.  It  is  fitting  that  we 
should  have  a  day  of  commemoration.  Far  off  in 
France  burns  the  light  our  fathers  saw,  and  were  glad 
of.  And  we  in  Pontiac  have  a  link  that  binds  us  to  the 
old  home.  We  have  ever  given  her  proud  remem- 
brance— we  now  give  her  art  and  song!  " 

With  these  words,  and  turning  to  his  wife,  he  ended, 
and  cries  of  "  Madame  Madelinette!  Madame  Made- 
linette!  "  were  heard  everywhere.  Even  the  English 
soldiers  cheered,  and  Madelinette  sang  h  la  Claire  Fon- 
taine, three  verses  in  French  and  one  in  English,  and 
the  whole  valley  rang  with  the  refrain  sung  at  the 
topmost  pitch  by  five  thousand  voices : 


?!  i 


"  Fya  longtemps  que  je  t'aime, 
Jamais  jc  ne  t'oublierai." 


The  day  of  pleasure  done  and  dusk  settled  on  Pon- 
tiac and  on  the  encampment  of  soldiers  in  the  valley,  a 
light  still  burned  in  the  library  at  the  Manor  House 
long  after  midnight.  Madelinette  had  gone  to  bed, but, 
excited  by  the  events  of  the  day,  she  could  -not  sleep, 
and  she  went  down  to  the  library  to  read.  But  her 
mind  wandered  still,  and  she  sat  mechanically  looking 
before  her  at  a  picture  of  the  father  of  the  late  Seigneur, 


NG 


THE  LANE  THAT  HAD  NO  TURNING  37 


incur 
in  our 
:  Caril- 
guage, 
hearth- 
3es  not 
history 
ve  have 
rebuke, 
that  we 
off  in 
ive  glad 
IS  to  the 
remem- 

e  ended, 
2  Made- 
English 
lire  Fon- 
lish,  and 
at  the 


which  was  let  into  the  moulding  of  the  oak  wall.  As 
she  looked  abstractedly  and  yet  with  the  intensity  of 
the  preoccupied  mind,  her  eye  became  aware  of  a  little 
piece  of  wood  let  into  the  moulding  of  the  frame.  The 
light  of  the  hanging  lamp  was  full  on  it. 

This  irregularity  began  to  perplex  her  eye.  Pres- 
ently it  intruded  on  her  reverie.  Still  busy  with  her 
thoughts,  she  knelt  upon  the  table  beneath  the  picture 
and  pressed  the  irregular  piece  of  wood.  A  spring 
gave,  the  picture  came  slowly  away  from  the  frame  and 
disclosed  a  small  cupboard  behind. 

In  this  cupboard  were  a  few  books,  an  old  silver- 
handled  pistol,  and  a  packet.  Madelinette's  reverie 
was  broken  now.  She  was  face  to  face  with  discovery 
and  mystery.  Her  heart  stood  still  with  fear.  After 
an  instant  of  suspense,  she  took  out  the  packet  and  held 
it  to  the  light.     She  gave  a  smothered  cry. 

It  was  the  will  of  the  late  Seigneur. 


on  Pon- 
valley,  a 
r  House 
bed,  but, 
lot  sleep. 
But  her 
looking 
Seigneur, 


CHAPTER   V 


WHAT   WILL   SHE   DO   WITH    IT? 


GEORGE  FOURNEL  was  the  heir  to  the  Sei- 
gneury  of  Pontiac,  not  Louis  Racine.  There  it 
was  in  the  will  of  M.  de  la  Riviere,  duly  signed  and  at- 
tested. 

Madelinette's  heart  stood  still.  Louis  was  no  longer 
— indeed,  never  had  been — Seigneur  of  Pontiac,  and 
they  had  no  right  there,  had  never  had  any  right  there. 
They  must  leave  this  place  which  was  to  Louis  the  fe- 
tish of  his  soul,  the  small  compensation  fate  had  made 
him  for  the  trouble  nature  had  cynically  laid  upon  him. 
He  had  clung  to  it  as  a  drowning  man  clings  to  a  spar. 
To  him  it  was  the  charter  from  which  he  could  appe  ^1 
to  the  world  as  the  husband  of  Madelinette  Lajeunesse. 
To  him  it  was  the  name,  the  dignity,  and  the  fortune  he 
brought  her.  It  was  the  one  thing  that  saved  him 
from  a  dire  humiliation;  it  was  the  vantage  ground 
from  which  he  appealed  to  her  respect,  the  flaming  tes- 
timony of  his  own  self-esteem.  Every  hour  since  his 
trouble  had  come  upon  him,  since  Madelinette's  great 
fame  had  come  to  her,  he  had  protested  to  himself  that 
it  was  honour  for  honour;  and  every  day  he  had  la- 
boured, sometimes  how  fantastically,  how  futilely!  to 
dignify  his  position,  to  enhance  his  importance  in  her 
eyes.  She  had  understood  it  all,  had  read  him  to  the 
last  letter  in  the  alphabet  of  his  mind  and  heart.  She 
had  realised  the  consternation  of  the  people,  and  she 


THE  LANE  THAT  HAD  NO  TURNING  39 


appe  A 
eunesse. 
3rtune  he 
Lved  him 
ground 
ming  tes- 
since  his 
te's  great 
nself  that 
had  la- 
itilely!  to 
ce  in  her 
im  to  the 
lart.     She 
and  she 


knew  that,  for  her  sake,  and  because  the  Cure  had  com- 
manded, all  the  obsolete  claims  he  had  made  were  re- 
sponded to  by  the  people.  Certainly  he  had  affected 
them  by  his  eloquence  and  his  hcry  kindness,  but  at  the 
same  time  they  had  shrewdly  smelt  the  treason  under- 
neath his  ardour,  there  was  a  definite  limit  to  their  loy- 
alty to  him;  and,  deprived  of  the  Seigneur)-,  he  would 
count  for  nothing. 

A  hundred  thoughts  like  these  went  through  her 
mind  as  she  stood  by  the  table  under  the  hanging  lamp, 
her  face  white  as  the  loose  robe  she  wore,  her  eyes  hot 
and  staring,  her  figure  rigid  as  stone. 

To-morrow — how  could  she  face  to-morrow,  and 
Louis!  How  could  she  tell  him  this!  How  could  she 
say  to  him,  "  Louis,  you  are  no  longer  Seigneur.  The 
man  you  hate,  he  who  is  your  inveterate  enemy,  who 
has  every  reason  to  exact  from  you  the  last  tribute  of 
humiliation,  is  Seigneur  here!  "  How  could  she  face 
the  despair  of  the  man  whose  life  was  one  inward  fever, 
one  long  illusion,  which  was  yet  only  half  an  illusion, 
since  he  was  forever  tortured  by  suspicion;  whose  body 
was  wearing  itself  out,  and  whose  spirit  was  destroying 
itself  in  the  struggle  of  a  vexed  imagination! 

She  knew  that  Louis'  years  were  numbered.  She 
knew  that  this  blow  would  break  him  body  and  soul. 
He  could  never  survive  the  humiliation.  His  sensiti^^e- 
ness  was  a  disease,  his  pride  was  the  only  thing  that 
kept  him  going;  his  love  of  her,  strong  as  it  was,  would 
be  drowned  in  an  imagined  shame! 

It  was  midnight.  She  was  alone  with  this  secret.  She 
held  the  paper  in  her  hand,  which  was  at  once  Louis' 
sentence  or  his  charter  of  liberty.  A  candle  was  at  her 
hand,  the  doors  were  shut,  the  blinds  drawn,  the  house 
a  frozen  silence — how  cold  she  was,  though  it  was  the 


40  THE  LANE  THAT  HAD  NO  TURNING 


deep  of  summer!  She  shivered  from  licad  to  foot,  and 
yet  all  day  the  harvest  sun  had  drenched  the  room  in  its 
heat. 

Yet  her  hlood  mip^ht  run  warm  again,  her  cold  cheeks 
might  regain  their  colour,  her  heart  beat  (juietly  if  this 
paper  were  no  more!  The  thought  made  her  shrink 
away  from  herself,  as  it  were,  yet  she  caught  up  the 
candle  and  lighted  it. 

f'or  Louis.  For  Louis,  though  she  would  rather 
have  died  than  do  it  for  herself.  To  save  to  Louis  what 
was,  to  his  imagination,  the  one  claim  he  had  upon  her 
respect  and  the  world's.  After  all,  how  little  was  it  in 
value  or  in  dignity!  How  little  she  cared  for  it!  One 
year  of  her  voice  could  earn  two  such  Seigneuries  as 
this.  And  the  honour — save  that  it  was  Pontiac — it  was 
naught  to  her.  In  all  her  life  she  had  never  done  or 
said  a  dishonourable  thing.  She  had  never  lied,  she 
had  never  deceived,  she  had  never  done  aught  that 
might  not  have  been  written  down  and  published  to 
all  the  world.  Yet  here,  all  at  once,  she  was  faced 
with  a  vast  temptation,  to  do  a  deed,  the  penalty  of 
which  was  an  indelible  shame. 

What  injury  would  it  do  to  George  Fournel!  He 
was  used  now  to  his  disappointment;  he  was  rich;  he 
had  no  claims  upon  Pontiac;  there  was  no  one  but  him- 
self to  whom  it  mattered,  this  little  Seigneury.  What 
he  did  not  know  did  not  exist,  so  far  as  himself  was 
concerned.  How  easily  could  it  all  be  made  right 
some  day!  She  felt  as  though  she  were  suffocating, 
and  she  opened  the  window  a  little  very  softly.  Then 
she  lit  the  candle  tremblingly,  watched  the  flame 
gather  strength,  and  opened  out  the  will.  As  she  did 
so,  however,  the  smell  of  a  buckwheat  field,  which 
is  as  honey,  came  stealing  through  the  room,  and  all 


) 


I  ! 


THE  LANE  THAT  HAD  NO  TURNING  41 


foot,  and 
Dom  in  its 

)lcl  cheeks 
:tly  if  this 
icr  shrink 
ht  up  the 

M  rather 
^ouis  what 

1  upon  her 

2  was  it  in 
r  it!  One 
neurios  as 
iac — it  was 
2r  done  or 
r  lied,  she 
aught  that 
iblished  to 

was  faced 
penalty  of 

irnel!    He 

IS  rich;  he 

e  but  him- 

ry.     What 

mself  was 

lade  right 

ufifocating, 

tly.    Then 

the   flame 

A.S  she  did 

eld,  which 

m,  and  all 


•i 


at  once  a  strange  association  of  ideas  flashed  into  her 
brain. 

She  recalled  one  summer  day  long  ago,  when,  in  the 
Church  of  St.  Saviour's,  the  smell  of  the  buckwheat 
fields  came  through  the  open  door  and  windows,  and 
licr  mind  had  kept  repeating  mechanically,  till  she  fell 
asleep,  the  text  of  the  Cure's  sermon — "  As  ye  sow,  so 
also  shall  ye  reap." 

That  placid  hour  which  had  no  problems,  no  cares, 
no  fears,  no  penalties  in  view,  which  was  filled  with  the 
richness  of  a  blessed  harvest  and  the  plenitude  of  inno- 
cent youth,  came  back  on  her  now  in  the  moment  of  her 
fierce  temptation. 

She  folded  up  the  paper  slowly,  a  sob  came  in  her 
throat,  she  blew  out  the  candle,  and  put  th<  will  back  in 
the  cupboard.  The  faint  click  of  the  spring  as  she 
closed  the  panel  seemed  terribly  loud  to  her.  She 
started  and  looked  timorously  round.  The  blood  came 
back  to  her  face — she  flushed  crimson  with  guilt.  Then 
she  turned  out  the  lighted  lamp  and  crept  away  up  the 
stairs  to  her  room. 

She  paused  beside  Louis'  bed.  He  was  moving  rest- 
lessly in  his  sleep;  he  was  murmuring  her  name.  With 
a  breaking  sigh  she  crept  into  bed  slowly  and  lay  like 
one  who  had  been  beaten,  bruised,  and  shamed. 

At  last,  before  the  dawn,  she  fell  asleep.  She  dreamed 
that  she  was  in  prison  and  that  George  Fournel  was 
her  gaoler. 

She  waked  to  find  Louis  at  her  bedside. 

"  I  am  holding  my  seigneurial  court  to-day,"  he  said. 


'i  II 


.ii 


CHAPTER   VI 


THE    ONE  WHO   SAW 


ALL  day  and  ^very  day  Madelinette's  mind  kept 
fastening  itself  upon  one  theme,  kept  turning  to 
one  spot.  In  her  dreams  she  saw  the  hanging  lamp, 
the  moving  panel,  the  little  cupboard,  the  fatal  paper. 
Waking  and  restlessly  busy,  she  sometimes  forgot  it 
for  a  moment,  hvt  remembrance  would  come  back  with 
painful  force,  and  her  will  must  govern  her  hurt  spirit 
into  quiet  resolution.  She  had  such  a  sense  of  humili- 
ation as  though  some  one  dear  to  her  had  committed  a 
crime  against  herself.  Two  personr  were  in  her — 
Madelinette  Lajeunesse  the  daughter  of  the  village 
blacksmith,  brought  up  in  the  peaceful  discipline  of 
her  religion,  shunning  falsehood  and  dishonour  with 
a  simple  proud  self-respect,  and  Madame  Racine  the 
great  singer  Who  haa  touched  at  last  the  heart  of 
things;  and  with  the  knowledge,  had  thrown  aside  past 
principles  and  convictions  to  save  her  stricken  husband 
from  miseiy  and  humiliation — to  save  his  health,  his 
mind,  his  life  maybe. 

The  struggle  of  conscience  and  expediency,  of  prin- 
ciple and  womanliness,  wore  upon  her,  taking  away  the 
colour  from  her  cheeks,  but  spiritualising  her  face,  giv- 
ing the  large  black  eyes  an  expression  of  rare  intensity, 
so  that  the  Avocat  in  his  admiration  called  her  Ma- 
donna, and  the  Cure  came  oftener  to  the  Manor  House 
with  a  fear  in  his  heart  that  all  was  not  well.     Yet  he 


.r 


THE  LANE  THAT  HAD  NO  TURNING  43 

was  met  by  her  cheerful  smile,  by  her  quiet  sense  of 
humour,  by  the  touching  yet  not  demonstrative  devo- 
tion of  the  wife  to  the  husband,  and  a  varying  and  im- 
pulsive adoration  of  the  wife  by  the  husband.  One 
day  when  the  Cure  was  with  the  Seigneur,  Madelinette 
entered  upon  them.  Her  face  was  pale  though  com- 
posed, yet  her  eyes  had  a  look  of  abstraction  or  detach- 
ment. The  Cure's  face  biightened  at  her  approach. 
She  wore  a  simple  white  gown  with  a  bunch  of  roses 
at  the  belt,  and  a  broad  hat  lined  with  red  that  shaded 
her  face  and  gave  it  a  warmth  it  did  not  possess. 

"  Dear  Madame!  "  said  the  Cure,  rising  to  his  feet 
and  coming  towards  her. 

"  I  have  told  you  before  that  I  will  have  nothing  but 
'  Madeimette,'  dear  Cure,"  she  replied  with  a  smile,  and 
gave  him  her  hand.  She  turned  to  Louis,  who  had 
risen  also,  and  putting  a  hand  on  his  arm  pressed  him 
gently  into  his  chair,  then,  with  a  swift,  almost  casual, 
caress  of  his  hair,  placed  on  the  table  the  basket  of  flow- 
ers she  was  carrying,  and  began  to  arrange  them. 

"  Dear  Louis,"  she  said  presently,  and  as  though  en 
passant,  "  I  have  dismissed  Tardif  to-day — I  hope  you 
won't  mind  these  domestic  details,  dear  Cure,"  she 
added. 

The  Cure  nodded  and  turned  his  head  towards  the 
window  musingly.  He  was  thinking  that  she  had  done 
a  wise  thing  in  dismissing  Tardif,  for  the  man  had  evil 
qualities,  and  he  was  hoping  that  he  would  leave  the 
parish  now. 

The  Seigneur  nodded.  "  Then  he  will  go.  I  have 
dismissed  him — I  have  a  temper — many  times,  but  he 
never  went.  It  is  foolish  to  dismiss  a  man  in  a  temper. 
He  thinks  you  do  not  mean  it.  But  our  Madelinette 
there  " — he  turned  towards  the  Cure  now — "  she  is 


44  THE  LANE  THAT  HAD  NO  TURNING 


•  1" 


never  in  a  temper,  and  every  one  always  knows  she 
means  what  she  says,  and  she  says  it  as  even  as  a 
clock."  Then  the  egoist  in  him  added:  "  I  have  power 
and  imagination  and  the  faculty  for  great  things;  but 
Madelinette  has  serene  judgment — a  tribute  to  you, 
Cure,  who  taught  her  in  the  old  days." 

"  In  any  case,  Tardif  is  going,"  she  repeated  quietly. 

"  What  did  he  do?  "  said  the  Seigneur.  "  What  was 
your  grievance,  beautiful  Madame?" 

He  was  looking  at  her  with  unfeigned  admiration 
— with  just  sudi  a  look  as  was  in  his  face  the  first  day 
they  met  in  the  Avocat's  house  on  his  arrival  in  Pon- 
tiac.  She  turned  and  saw  it,  and  remembered.  The 
scene  flashed  before  her  m.ind.  The  thought  of  herself 
then,  with  the  flush  of  a  sunrise  love  suddenly  rising  in 
her  heart,  roused  a  torrent  of  feeling  now,  and  it  re- 
quired every  bit  of  strength  she  had  to  prevent  her 
bursting  into  a  passion  of  tears.  In  imagination  she 
saw  him  there,  a  straight,  slim,  handsome  <igure  with 
the  very  vanity  of  proud  health  upon  him,  and  ambition 
and  passionate  purpose  in  every  line  of  his  figure,  every 
glance  of  his  eyes.  Now — there  he  was,  bent,  frail,  and 
thin,  with  restless  eyes  and  deep  discontent  in  voice 
and  manner;  the  curved  shoulder  and  the  head  grown 
suddenly  old;  the  only  thing,  speaking  of  the  past,  the 
graceful  hand,  filled  with  the  illusory  courage  of  a 
declining  vitality.  But  for  the  nervous  force  in  him, 
the  latent  vitality  which  renewed  with  stubborn  persis- 
tence the  failing  forces,  he  was  dead.  The  brain 
kept  commanding  the  body  back  to  life  and  man- 
hood daily. 

**  What  did  Tardif  do?"  the  Seigneur  again  ques- 
tioned, holding  out  a  hand  to  her. 

She  did  not  dare  to  take  his  hand  lest  her  feelings 


THE  LANE  THAT  HAD  NO  TURNING  45 


should  overcome  her;  so  with  an  assumed  gaiety  she 
put  in  it  a  rose  from  her  basket  and  said: 

"  He  has  been  pilfering.  Also  he  was  insolent.  I 
suppose  he  could  iiot  help  remembering  that  I  lived 
at  the  smithy  once — the  dear  smithy!  "  she  added 
softly. 

"  I  will  go  at  once  and  pay  the  scoundrel  his  wages," 
said  the  Seigneur,  rising,  and  with  a  nod  to  the  Cure 
and  his  wife  opened  the  door. 

"  Do  not  see  him  yourself,  Louis,"  said  Madelinette. 

"  Not  L  Havel  shall  pay  him  and  he  shall  take  him- 
self off  to-morrow  morning." 

The  door  closed,  and  Madelinette  was  left  alone 
with  the  Cure.  She  came  to  him  and  s?>id  with  a  quiv- 
ering in  her  voice: 

"  He  mocked  Louis!  " 

"  It  is  well  that  he  should  go.  He  is  a  bad  man  and 
a  bad  servant.     I  know  him  too  well." 

"  You  see,  he  keeps  saying  " — she  spoke  very  slowly 
— "  that  he  witnessed  a  will  the  Seigneur  made  in  fa- 
vour of  Monsieur  Fournel.  He  thinks  us  interlopers, 
I  suppose." 

The  Cure  put  a  hand  on  hers  gently.  *'  There  was 
a  time  when  I  felt  that  Monsieur  Fournel  was  the  legal 
heir  to  the  Seigncury,  for  Monsieur  de  la  Riviere  had 
told  me  there  was  such  a  will;  but  since  then  I  have 
changed  my  mind.  Your  husband  is  the  natn-al  heir, 
and  it  is  only  just  that  the  Seigneury  should  go  on  in 
the  direct  line.     It  is  best." 

"  Even  with  all  Louis'  mistakes?  " 

"  Even    with    them.      You    have 
and  you  will  keep  him   within  the 
dom   and   prudence.     You   are   his 
Madelinette." 


set  them  right, 
bounds  of  wis- 
guardian   angel, 


46  THE  LANE  THAT  HAD  NO  TURNING 


'!'    I 


She  looked  up  at  him  with  a  pensive  smile  and  a 
glance  of  gratitude. 

"  But  suppose  that  will — if  there  is  one — exists,  see 
how  false  our  position!  " 

"  Do  you  think  it  is  mere  accident  that  the  will  has 
never  been  found — if  it  was  not  destroyed  by  the  Sei- 
gneur himself  before  he  died?  No,  there  is  purpose  be- 
hind it,  with  which  neither  you  nor  I  nor  Louis  have 
anything  to  do.  Ah,  it  is  good  to  have  you  here  in  this 
Seigneury,  my  child!  What  you  give  us  will  return 
to  you  a  thousandfold.  Do  not  regret  the  world  and 
your  work  there.     You  will  go  back  all  too  soon." 

She  was  about  to  reply  when  the  Seigneur  again 
entered  the  room. 

"  I  made  up  my  mind  that  he  should  go  at  once,  and 
so  I've  sent  him  word — the  rat!  " 

"  I  will  leave  you  two  to  be  drowned  in  the  depths  of 
your  own  intelligence,"  said  Madelinette;  and  taking 
her  empty  basket  left  the  room. 

A  strange  compelling  feeling  drove  her  to  the  library 
where  the  fateful  panel  was.  With  a  strange  sense 
that  her  wrong-doing  was  modified  by  the  fact,  she  h^d 
left  the  will  where  she  had  found  it.  She  had  a  super- 
stition that  fate  would  deal  less  harshly  with  her,  if  she 
did.  It  was  not  her  way  to  temporize.  She  had  con- 
cealed the  discovery  of  the  will  with  an  unswerving 
determination.  It  was  for  Louis,  it  was  for  his  peace, 
for  the  ease  of  his  fading  life,  and  she  had  no  repent- 
ance. Yet  there  it  was,  that  curious,  useless  con- 
cession to  old  prejudices,  the  little  touch  of  hypoc- 
risy— she  left  the  will  where  she  had  found  it.  She 
had  never  looked  at  it  since,  no  matter  how  great  the 
temptation,  and  sometimes  this  was  overpowering. 

To-day  it  overpowered  her.     The  house  was  very 


THE  LANE  THAT  HAD  NO  TURNING  47 

still  and  tlie  blinds  were  drawn  to  shut  out  the  heat, 
but  the  soft  din  of  the  locusts  came  through  the  win- 
dows. Her  household  were  all  engaged  elsewhere. 
She  shut  the  doors  of  the  little  room,  and  kneeling  on 
the  table  touched  the  spring.  The  panel  came  back 
and  disclosed  the  cupboard.  There  lay  the  will.  She 
took  it  up  and  opened  it.  Her  eyes  went  dim  on  the 
instant,  and  she  leaned  her  forehead  against  the  wall, 
sick  at  heart. 

As  she  did  so  a  sudden  gust  of  wind  drove  in  the 
blind  of  the  window.  She  started,  but  saw  what  it  was, 
and,  hastily  putting  the  will  back,  closed  the  panel, 
and  with  a  fast-beating  heart,  left  the  room. 

Late  that  evening  she  found  a  letter  on  the  library 
table  addressed  to  herself.     It  ran: 

"  You've  shipped  me  off  like  dirt.  You'll  be  shipped  off, 
Madame,  double-quick.  I've  got  what'll  bring  the  right  owner 
here.    You'll  soon  hear  from 

"  Tardif." 


In  terror  she  hastened  to  the  library  and  sprung  the 
panel.     The  will  was  gone. 
Tardif  was  on  his  way  with  it  to  George  Fournel. 


CHAPTER   VII 


THE   PURSUIT 


THERE  was  but  one  thing  to  do.  She  must  go 
straight  to  George  Fournel  at  Quebec.  She 
knew  only  too  well  that  Tardif  was  speeding  thither  as 
fast  as  horses  could  carry  him.  He  had  had  several 
hours'  start,  but  there  was  still  a  chance  of  overtaking 
him.  And  suppose  she  overtook  him?  She  could 
not  decide  definitely  what  she  should  do,  but  she  would 
do  anything,  sacrifice  anything,  to  secure  again  that 
fatal  document  which,  in  George  Fournel's  hands,  must 
bring  a  collapse  worse  than  death.  A  dozen  plans 
flashed  before  her,  and  now  that  her  mind  was  set  upon 
the  thing,  compunction  would  not  stay  her.  She  had 
gone  so  far,  she  was  prepared  to  go  farther  to  save  this 
Seigneury  to  Louis.  She  put  in  her  pocket  the  silver- 
handled  pistol  from  the  fatal  cupboard. 

In  an  hour  from  the  time  she  found  the  note,  the  horses 
and  coach  were  at  the  door,  and  the  faithful  Havel, 
cloaked  and  armed,  was  ready  for  the  journey.  A  note 
to  Louis,  with  the  excuse  of  a  sudden  and  important 
call  to  Quebec,  which  he  was  to  construe  into  business 
concerning  her  profession ;  hurried  yet  careful  arrange- 
ments for  his  comfort  during  'her  absence;  a  letter  to 
the  Cure  begging  of  him  a  daily  visit  to  the  Manor 
House;  and  then,  with  the  flurried  Madame  Marie,  she 
entered  the  coach  with  Havel  on  the  box,  and  they 
were  off. 


THE  LANE  THAT  HAD  NO  TURNING  49 

The  coach  rattled  through  the  village  and  stopped 
for  a  moment  at  the  smithy.  A  few  words  of  cheerful 
good-bye  to  her  father — she  carried  the  spring  in  her 
face  and  the  summer  of  gaiety  in  her  voice  however 
sore  her  heart  was — and  they  were  once  more  upon 
the  road. 

Their  first  stage  was  twenty-five  miles,  and  it  led 
through  the  ravine  where  Parpon  and  his  comrades 
had  once  sought  to  frighten  George  Fournel.  As 
they  passed  the  place  Madelinette  shuddered.,  and  she 
remembered  Fournel's  cynical  face  as  he  left  the 
house  three  months  ago.  She  felt  that  it  would  not 
easily  soften  to  mercy  nor  look  upon  her  trouble  wit  a 
a  human  eye,  if  once  the  will  were  in  his  hands.  It 
was  a  silent  journey,  but  Aladame  Marie  asked  no 
questions,  and  there  was  comfort  in  her  unspoken 
sympathy. 

Five  hours,  and  at  midnight  they  arrived  at  the  end 
of  the  first  stage  of  their  journey,  at  the  village  tavern 
of  St.  Stanislaus.  Here  Madame  Marie  urged  Made- 
linette to  stay  and  sleep,  but  this  she  refused  to  do  if 
horses  could  be  got  to  go  forward.  The  sight  of  two 
gold  pieces  made  the  thing  possible  in  the  landlord's 
eyes,  and  Madame  Marie  urged  no  more,  but  found 
some  refreshment,  of  which  she  gently  insisted  that 
Madelinette  should  partake.  In  another  hour  from 
their  arrival  they  were  on  the  road  again,  with  the 
knowledge  that  Tardif  had  changed  horses  and  gone 
forward  four  hours  before,  boasting  as  he  went  that 
when  the  bombshell  he  was  carrying  should  burst  the 
country  would  stay  awake  o'  nights  for  a  year. 

Madelinette  herself  had  made  the  inquiries  of  the 
landlord,  whose  easily  bought  obsequiousness  now 
knew  no  bounds,  and  he  gave  a  letter  to  Havel  to  hand 

4 


<? 


so  THE  LANE  THAT  HAD  NO  TURNING 


to  his  cousin  the  landlord  at  the  next  change,  which,  he 
said,  would  be  sure  to  secure  them  the  best  of  accom- 
modation and  good  horses. 

As  the  night  grew  to  morning,  Madelinette  drooped 
a  little,  and  Madame  Marie,  who  had,  to  her  own  anger 
and  disgust,  slept  three  hours  or  more,  quietly  drew 
Madelinette  towards  her.  With  a  little  sob  the  girl — 
for  what  was  she  but  a  girl! — let  her  head  drop  on 
the  old  A^oman's  shoulder,  and  she  fell  into  a  troubled 
sleep,  which  lasted  til!,  in  the  flush  of  "uiirise,  they  drew 
up  at  ihe  solitary  inn  on  the  outskirts  of  the  village  of 
Beaugard.  They  Lad  come  fifty  miles  since  the  even- 
ing before. 

Here  Madelinette  took  Havel  into  her  confidence,  in 
so  far  as  to  tell  him  that  Tardif  had  stolen  a  valuable 
paper  from  her,  the  loss  of  which  might  bring  most 
serious  consequences. 

Whatever  Havel  had  suspectea,  he  was  the  last  man 
in  the  world  to  show  or  tell.  But  before  leaving  the 
Manor  ^louse  of  Pontiac  he  had  armed  himself  with 
pistols,  in  the  grim  hope  that  he  might  be  required  to 
use  them.  Havel  had  been  used  hard  in  the  world, 
Madelinette  had  been  kind  to  him,  and  he  was  ready  to 
show  his  gratitude;  and  he  little  recked  what  form  It 
might  take.  When  he  found  that  they  were  following 
Tardif,  and  for  what  purpose,  an  evil  joy  filled  his  heart, 
and  he  determined  on  revenge — so  long  delayed — on 
the  scoundrel  who  had  once  tried  to  turn  the  whole 
parish  against  him  by  evil  means.  He  saw  that  his 
pistols  were  duly  primed,  he  learned  that  Tardif  had 
passed  but  two  hours  before,  boasting  again  that  Eu- 
rope would  have  gossip  for  a  year,  once  he  reached 
Quebec.  Tardif,  too,  had  paid  libcally  for  his  refresh- 
ment and  his  horses,  for  here  he  had  taken  a  carriage 


.V"  •  :r- 


THE  LANE  THAT  HAD  NO  TURNING  51 


and  had  swaggered   like  a   trooper   in   a  conquered 
country. 

Havel  had  every  hope  of  overtaking  Tardif,  and  so 
he  told  Madelinette,  adding  that  he  would  secure  the 
paper  for  her  at  any  cost.  She  did  not  quite  know 
what  Havel  meant,  but  she  read  purpose  in  his  eye,  and 
when  Havel  said:  "I  won't  say  'Stop  thief  many 
times,"  she  turned  away  without  speaking — she  was 
choked  with  anxiety.  Yet  in  her  own  pocket  was  a 
little  silver-handled  pistol! 

It  was  true  that  Tardif  was  a  thief,  but  she  knew  that 
his  theft  would  be  counted  a  virtue  before  the  world. 
This  she  could  not  tell  Havel,  but  when  the  critical 
moment  came — if  it  did  come — she  would  then  act 
upon  the  moment's  inspiration.  If  Tardif  was  a  thief, 
what  was  she?  But  this  she  could  not  tell  Havel  or 
the  world.  Even  as  she  thought  it  for  this  thousandth 
time,  her  face  flushed  deeply,  and  a  mist  came  before 
her  eyes.  But  she  hardened  her  heart  and  gave  orders 
to  proceed  as  soon  as  the  horses  were  ready.  After  a 
hasty  breakfast  they  were  again  on  their  way,  and 
reached  the  third  stage  of  their  journey  by  eleven 
o'clock.     Tardif  had  passed  two  hours  before. 

So  for  two  days  they  travelled,  with  no  sleep  save 
what  they  could  catch  as  the  coach  rolled  on.  They 
were  delayed  three  hours  at  one  inn  because  of  the 
trouble  in  getting  horses,  since  it  appeared  that  Tardif 
had  taken  the  only  available  pair  in  the  place ;  but  a  few 
gold  pieces  brought  another  pair  galloping  from  a  farm 
two  miles  away,  and  they  were  again  on  the  road.  Fifty 
miles  to  go,  and  Tardif  with  three  hours  start  of  them! 
Unless  he  had  an  accident  there  was  faint  chance  of 
overtaking  him,  for  at  this  stage  he  had  taken  to  the 
saddle  again.     As  time  had  gone  on,  and  the  distance 


52  THE  LANE  THAT  HAD  NO  TURNING 


between  them  and  Quebec  had  decreased,  Madelinette 
had  grown  paler  and  stiller.  Yet  she  was  considerate 
of  Madame  Marie  more  than  once,  insisted  on  Havel 
lying  down  for  a  couple  of  hours,  and  herself  made  him 
a  strengthening  bowl  of  soup  at  the  kitchen  fire  of  the 
inn.  Meanwhile  she  inquired  whether  it  might  be  pos- 
sible to  get  four  bourses  at  the  next  change,  and  she 
ofifcred  five  gold  pieces  to  a  man  who  would  ride  on 
ahead  of  them  and  secure  the  team. 

Some  magic  seemed  to  bring  her  the  accomplish- 
ment of  the  impossible,  for  even  as  she  made  the  offer, 
and  the  downcast  looks  of  the  landlord  were  assuring 
her  that  her  request  was  futile,  there  was  the  rattle  of 
hoofs  without,  and  a  petty  Government  official  rode  up. 
He  had  come  a  journey  of  three  miles  only,  and  his 
horse  was  fresh.  Agitated,  yet  ruling  herself  to  com- 
posure, Madelinette  approached  him  and  made  her  pro- 
posal to  him.  He  was  suspicious,  as  became  a  petty 
Government  official,  and  replied  sullenly.  She  offered 
him  money — before  the  landlord  unhappily — and  his 
refusal  was  now  unnecessarily  bitter.  She  turned  away 
sadly,  but  Madame  Marie  had  been  roused  by  the  offi- 
cials churlishness,  and  for  once  the  placid  little  body 
spoke  in  that  vulgar  tongue  which  needs  no  interpr  ta- 
tion.  She  asked  the  fellow  if  he  knew  to  whom  he  had 
been  impolite,  to  whom  he  had  refused  a  kindly  act. 

"  You — you  a  habitant  road-watcher,  a  pound- 
keeper,  a  village  tax-collector,  or  something  less!  "  she 
said.  "  You  to  refuse  the  great  singer,  Madeimette 
Lajeunesse,  the  wife  of  the  Seigneur  of  Pontiac,  the 
greatest  patriot  in  the  land,  to  refuse  her  whom  princes 
are  glad  to  serve — "  She  stopped  and  gasped  h^r  in- 
dignation. 

A  hundred  speeches  and  a  himdred  pounds  could  not 


THE  LANE  THAT  HAD  NO  TURNING   53 

have  clone  so  much.  Tlie  habitant  official  stared  in 
blank  amazement,  the  landlord  took  a  rflass  of  brandy 
to  steady  himself. 

"  The  Lajeunesse — the  Lajeunesse,  the  singer  of  all 
the  world — ah,  why  did  she  not  say  so  then!  "  said  the 
churl.  "  What  would  I  not  do  for  her!  Money — no, 
it  is  nothing,  but  the  Lajeunesse,  I  myself  would  give 
my  horse  to  hear  her  sing." 

"  Tell  her  she  can  have  m'sieu's  horse,"  said  the 
landlord,  excitedly  interposing. 

'*  Ticns,  who  the  devil! — the  horse  is  mine.  If  Ma- 
dame— if  she  will  but  let  me  ofTer  it  to  her  myself!  " 
said  the  agitated  official.  "  I  sing  myself.  I  know 
what  singing  is.  I  have  sung  in  an  opera — a  sentinel 
in  armour  1  was.  Ah,  but  bring  me  to  her,  and  you 
shall  see  what  I  will  do,  by  grace  of  heaven!  I  will 
marry  you,  if  you  haven't  a  husband,"  he  added  with 
ardour  to  the  dumfounded  Madame  Marie,  who  hur- 
ried to  the  adjoining  room. 

An  instant  afterwards  the  official  wa^  mplcing  an 
oration  in  tangled  sentences  which  brought  him  a 
grateful  smile  and  a  hand-clasp  from  Madelinette.  She 
could  not  prevent  him  from  kissing  her  hand,  she  could 
not  refrain  from  laughing  when  outside  the  room  he 
tried  to  kiss  Madame  Marie.  She  was  astounded,  how- 
ever, an  hour  later  to  see  him  still  at  the  inn  door, 
marching  up  and  down,  a  whip  in  his  hand.  She  looked 
at  him  reproachfully,  indignantly. 

"  Why  are  you  not  on  the  way?  "  she  asked. 

"  Your  man,  that  M'sieu'  Havel,  has  rode  on ;  I  am  to 
drive,"  he  said.  "  Ah,  yes,  Madame,  it  is  my  everlast- 
ing honour  that  I  am  to  drive  you.  Havel  has  a  good 
horse,  the  horse  has  a  good  rider,  you  have  a  good 
servant  in  me.     I,  Madame,  have  a  good  mistress  in 


54  THE  LANE  THAT  HAD  NO  TURNING 

you — I  am  content.  I  am  overjoyed,  I  am  proud,  I 
am  ready,  I,  Pierre  Lapierre!  " 

The  churlish  official  had  gone  back  to  the  natural 
state  of  an  excitable  habitant,  ready  to  give  away  his 
heart  or  lose  his  head  at  an  instant's  notice,  the  tempta- 
ticjn  being  sufficient.  Madclinette  was  frightened. 
She  knew  well  why  Havel  had  ridden  on  ahead  without 
her  permission,  and  shaking  hands  with  the  landlord 
and  getting  into  the  coach,  she  said  hastily  to  her  new 
coachman:  **  Lose  not  an  instant.     Drive  hard." 

They  reached  the  next  change  by  noon,  and  here 
they  found  four  horses  awaiting  them.  Tardif  and 
Havel  also  had  come  and  gone.  An  hour's  rest,  and 
they  were  away  again  upon  the  last  stage  of  the  jour- 
ney. They  should  reach  Quebec  soon  after  dusk,  all 
being  well.  At  first  Lapierre  the  official  had  been  in- 
clined to  babble,  but  at  last  he  relieved  his  mind  by 
interjections  only.  He  kept  shaking  his  head  wisely, 
as  though  debating  on  great  problems,  and  he  drove  his 
horses  with  a  master  hand — he  had  once  been  a  coach- 
driver  on  that  long  river  road  which  in  summer  makes 
a  narrow  ribbon  of  white,  mile  for  mile  with  the  St. 
Lawrence,  from  east  to  west.  This  was  the  proudest 
moment  of  his  life.  He  knew  great  things  we  ^  at 
stake,  and  they  had  to  do  with  the  famous  singer  La- 
jeunesse;  and  what  tales  Tor  his  grandchildren  in  years 
to  come! 

The  flushed  and  comfortable  Madame  Marie  sat  up- 
right in  the  coach,  holding  the  hand  of  her  mistress, 
and  Madelinette  grew  paler  as  the  miles  diminished  be- 
tween her  and  Quebec.  Yet  she  was  quiet  and  un- 
moving,  now  and  then  saying  an  encouraging  word  to 
Lapierre,  who  smacked  his  lips  for  miles  afterwards, 
and  took  out  of  his  horses  their  strength  and  paces  by 


THE  LANE  THAT  HAD  NO  TURNING  55 

masterly  degrees.  So  that  when,  at  last,  on  the  hill, 
they  saw,  far  off,  the  spires  of  (Juebec,  the  team  was 
swinging  as  steadily  on  as  though  they  had  not  come 
twtMity-five  miles  already.  This  was  a  moment  of 
pride  for  Lapierre,  but  of  apprehension  for  Madelinette. 
At  the  last  two  inns  on  the  road  she  had  got  news  of 
both  Tardif  and  Havel.  Tardif  had  had  the  final  start 
of  half  an  hour.  A  half-hour's  start,  and  fifteen  miles 
to  go!  But  one  thing  was  sure,  Havel — the  wiry 
Havel — was  the  better  man,  with  sounder  nerve  and  a 
fostered  strength. 

Yet,  as  they  descended  the  hill  and  plunged  into  the 
wild  wooded  valley,  untenanted  and  uncivilised,  where 
the  road  wound  and  curved  among  giant  boulders  and 
twisted  through  ravines  and  gorges,  her  heart  fell 
within  her.  Evening  was  at  hand,  and  in  the  thick 
forest  the  shadows  were  heavy  and  night  was  settling 
upon  them  before  its  time. 

They  had  not  gone  a  mile,  however,  when,  as  tliey 
swung  creaking  round  a  great  boulder,  Lapierre  pulled 
up  his  horses  with  a  loud  exclamation,  for  almost  under 
his  horses'  feet  lay  a  man  apparently  dead,  his  horse 
dead  beside  him. 

It  was  Havel.  In  an  instant  Madelinette  and  Ma- 
dame Marie  were  bending  over  him.  The  widow  of 
the  Little  Chemist  had  skill  and  presence  of  mind. 

"  He  is  not  dead,  dear  mine,"  said  she,  in  a  low  voice, 
fooling  Havel's  heart. 

"Thank  God! "  was  all  that  Madelinette  could  say. 
"  Let  us  lift  him  into  the  coach."  Now  Lapierre  was 
standing  beside  them,  the  reins  in  his  hand. 

"  Leave  that  to  me!  "  he  said,  and  passed  the  reins 
into  Madame  Marie's  hands,  then  with  muttered  im- 
precations on  persons  unmentioned  he  lifted  up  the 


56   THE  LANE  THAT  HAD  NO  TURNING 

slight  form  of  Havel  and  carried  him  to  the  coach. 
Meanwhile  Madelinette  had  stooped  to  a  little  stream 
at  the  side  of  the  road  and  filled  her  silver  drinking- 
cup  with  water. 

As  she  bent  over  Havel  and  sprinkled  his  face,  La- 
pierre  examined  the  insensible  man. 

**  He  is  but  stunned,"  he  said.  "  He  will  come  to  in 
a  moment." 

Then  he  went  to  the  spot  where  Havel  had  lain, 
and  found  a  pistol  lying  at  the  side  of  the  road.  Exam- 
ining it,  he  found  it  had  been  discharged — both  barrels. 
Bustling  with  importance  he  brought  it  to  Madelinette, 
nodding  and  looking  wise,  yet  half  timorous  too  in 
sharing  in  so  remarkable  a  business.  Madelinette 
glanced  at  the  pistol,  her  lips  tightened,  and  she  shud- 
dered. Havel  had  evidently  failed,  and  she  must  face 
the  worst.  Yet  now  that  it  had  come,  she  was  none 
the  less  determined  to  fight  on. 

Havel  opened  his  eyes  and  looked  round  in  a  startled 
way.     He  saw  Madelinette. 

"  Ah,  Madame,  Madame,  pardon!  He  got  away.  I 
fired  twice  and  winged  him,  but  he  shot  my  horse  nnd 
I  fell  on  my  head.  He  has  got  away.  What  time  is 
it,  Madame?"  he  suddenly  asked.  She  told  him.  "Ah, 
it  is  too  late,"  he  added.  "  It  happened  over  half  an 
hour  ago.  Unless  he  is  badly  hurt  and  has  fallen  by 
the  way,  he  is  now  in  the  city.  Ah,  Madame,  I  have 
failed  you — pardon,  madame !  " 

She  helped  him  to  sit  up,  and  made  a  cushion  of  her 
cloak  for  his  head  in  a  corner  of  the  coach.  "  There  is 
nothing  to  ask  pardon  for,  Havel,"  she  said;  *"  you  did 
your  best.  It  was  to  be — that's  all!  Drink  the  brandy 
now." 

A  moment  afterwards  Lapierre  was  on  the  box.  Ma- 


away.  I 
lorse  nnd 
Lt  time  is 
11.  "Ah, 
r  half  an 
fallen  by 
e,  I  have 

on  of  her 
'  There  is 
'•  you  did 
le  brandy 


^  THE  LANE  THAT  HAD  NO  TURNING  57 

dame  Marie  was  inside,  and  Madelinette  said  to  the 
coachman: 

"  Drive  hard— the  White  Calvary  by  the  Church  of 
St.  Mary  Magdalene!" 

In  another  hour  the  coach  drew  up  by  the  White 
Calvary,  where  a  soft  light  burned  in  memory  of  Lome 
departed  soul. 

The  three  alighted.  Madelinette  whispered  to 
Havel,  he  got  up  on  the  box  beside  Lapierre,  and  the 
coach  rattled  away  to  a  tavern,  as  the  two  women  dis- 
appeared swiftly  into  the  darkness. 


box,  Ma- 


CHAPTER  VIII 


FACE   TO    FACE 


AS  the  two  approached  the  mansion  where 
George  Fournel  lived,  they  saw  the  door  open 
and  a  man  come  hurriedly  out  into  the  street.  He  wore 
his  wrist  in  a  sling. 

Madelinette  caught  Madame  Marie's  arm.  She  did 
not  speak,  but  her  heart  sank  within  her.  The  man 
was  Tardif. 

He  saw  them  and  shuffled  over.     "  Ha,  Madame!  " 
he  said,  "  he  has  the  will,  and  I've  not  done  with  you  yet 
— you'll  see!"    Then,  shaking  a  fist  in  Madelihette's 
face,  he  clattered  off  into  the  darkness. 

They  crossed  the  street,  and  Madame  Marie  knocked 
at  Fournel's  door.  It  was  at  once  opened,  and  Made- 
linette announced  herself.  The  servant  stared  stonily 
at  first,  then  as  she  mentioned  her  name  and  he  saw 
her  face,  he  suddenly  became  servile,  and  asked  them 
into  a  small  waiting-room.  Monsieur  Fournel  was  at 
home  and  should  be  informed  at  once  of  Madame's 
arrival. 

A  few  moments  later,  the  servant,  somewhat  graver 
•but  as  courteous  still,  came  to  say  that  Monsieur  would 
receive  her  in  his  library.  Madelinette  turned  towards 
Madame  Marie.     The  servant  understood. 

"  I  shall  see  that  the  lady  has  refreshment,"  he  said. 
*'  Will  Madame  perhaps  care  for  refreshment — and  a 


THE  LANE  THAT  HAD  NO  TURNING  59 

mirror,  before  Monsieur  has  the  honour?  Madame 
has  travelled  far." 

In  spite  of  the  anxiety  of  the  moment  and  the  great 
maiters  at  stake,  Madelinette  could  not  but  smile. 

"  Thank  you,"  she  said,  "  I  hope  I  am  not  so  unpre- 
sentable! " 

"  A  little  dust  here  and  there  perhaps,  Madame,"  he 
said  with  humble  courtesy. 

Madelinette  was  not  so  heroical  as  to  undervalue  the 
suggestion.  Lives  perhaps  were  in  the  balance,  but 
she  was  a  woman,  and  who  could  tell  what  slight  influ- 
ences might  turn  the  scale! 

The  servant  saw  her  hesitation.  "  If  Aladame  will 
but  remain  here,  I  will  bring  what  is  necessary,"  he 
said,  and  was  gone.  In  a  moment  he  appeared  again 
with  a  silver  basin,  a  mirror,  and  a  few  necessaries  of 
the  toilet. 

"  I  suppose,  Madame,"  said  the  servant,  with  ilut- 
tered  anxiety  to  show  that  he  knew  who  she  was,  "  I 
suppose  you  have  had  sometimes  to  make  rough  shifts, 
even  in  palaces." 

She  gave  him  a  gold  piece.  It  cheered  her  in  the 
moment  to  think  that  in  this  forbidding  house,  on  a 
forbidding  mission  to  a  forbidding  man,  she  had  one 
friend.  She  made  a  hasty  toilet,  and  but  for  the  great 
paleness  of  her  cheeks,  no  traces  remained  of  the  three 
days'  trax'^el  with  their  hardship  and  anxiety.  Pres- 
ently, as  the  servant  ushered  her  into  the  presence  of 
George  Fournel,  even  the  paleness  was  warmed  a  little 
by  the  excitement  of  the  moment. 

Fournel  was  standing  with  his  back  to  the  door, 
looking  out  into  the  moonlit  night.  As  she  entered  he 
quickly  drew  the  curtains  of  the  windows  and  turned 
towards  his  visitor,  a  curious,  hard,  disdainful  look  in 


Co  THE  LANE  THAT  HAD  NO  TURNING 


his  face.  In  his  hands  he  held  a  paper  which  she  knew 
only  too  well. 

"  Madame!  "  he  said,  and  bowed.  Then  he  mo- 
tioned her  to  a  chair.  He  took  one  himself  and  sat 
down  beside  the  great  oak  writing  desk,  and  waited  for 
her  to  speak — waited  with  a  look  which  sent  the  blood 
from  her  heart  to  colour  her  cheeks  and  forehead. 

She  did  not  speak,  however,  but  looked  at  him  fear- 
lessly. It  was  impossible  for  her  to  humble  herself  be- 
fore the  latent  insolence  of  his  look.  It  seemed  to  de- 
grade her  out  of  all  consideration.  He  felt  the  courage 
of  her  defiance,  and  it  moved  him.  Yet  he  could  but 
speak  in  cynical  suggestion. 

"  You  had  a  long,  hard,  and  adventurous  journey,'* 
he  said.  He  rose  suddenly  and  drew  a  tray  towards 
him.  "  Will  you  not  have  some  refreshment?  "  he 
added  in  an  even  voice.  "  I  fear  you  have  not  had  time 
to  seek  it  at  an  inn.  Your  messenger  has  but  just 
gone." 

It  was  impossible  for  him  to  do  justice  to  himself,  or 
to  let  his  hospitality  rest  upon  its  basis  of  natural  cour- 
tesy. It  was  clear  that  he  was  moved  with  accumu- 
lated malice,  and  he  could  not  hide  it. 

"  Your  servant  has  been  hospitable,"  she  said,  her 
voice  trembling  a  little.  She  plunged  at  once  into  the 
business  of  her  visit. 

"  Monsieur,  that  paper  you  hold — "  She  stopped 
for  an  instant,  able  to  go  no  further. 

"  Ah,  this — this  document  you  have  sent  me,"  he 
said,  opening  it  with  an  assumed  carelessness.  "  Your 
servant  had  an  accident — I  suppose  we  may  call  it  that 
privately — as  he  came.  He  was  fired  at,  was  wcunded. 
You  will  share  with  me  the  hope  that  the  highwayman 
who  stopped  him  may  be  brought  to  justice,  though 


THE  LANE  THAT  HAD  NO  TURNING  6i 

indeed  your  fellow  Tardif  left  him  behind  in  the  dust. 
I'crhaps  you  came  upon  him,  Madame — licinf  " 

She  steeled  herself.  Too  much  was  at  stake;  she 
could  not  resent  his  hateful  implications  now. 

"  Tardif  was  not  my  messenger,  Monsieur,  as  you 
know.  Tardif  was  the  thief  of  that  document  in  your 
hands." 

"  Ah,  this — will !  "  he  said  musingly,  an  evil  glitter 
in  his  eyes.  "  Its  delivery  has  been  long  delayed. 
Posts  and  messengers  are  slow  from  Pontiac." 

"  Monsieur  will  hear  what  I  have  to  say?  You 
have  the  will,  your  rights  are  in  your  hands.  Is  not 
that  enough?  " 

"  It  is  rot  enough,"  he  answered  in  a  grating  voice. 
"  Let  us  be  plain  then,  Madame,  and  as  simple  as  you 
please.  You  concealed  this  will.  Not  Tardif,  but  your- 
self, is  open  to  the  law." 

She  shrank  under  the  brutality  of  his  manner,  but 
she  ruled  herself  to  outward  composure.  She  was 
about  to  reply,  when  he  added  with  a  sneer:  "  Avarice 
is  a  debasing  vice.  Thou  shalt  not  covet  thy  neigh- 
bour's house!     Thou  shalt  not  steal!  " 

"  Monsieur,"  she  said  calmly,  "  it  would  have  been 
easy  to  destroy  the  will.  Plave  you  not  thought  of 
that?" 

For  a  moment  he  was  taken  aback,  but  he  said 
harshly:  "  If  crime  were  always  intelligent  it  would 
have  fewer  penalties." 

She  shrank  again  under  the  roughness  of  his  words. 
But  she  was  fighting  for  an  end  that  was  dear  to  her 
soul,  and  she  answered : 

"  It  was  not  lack  of  intelligence,  but  a  sense  of  hon- 
our— yes,  a  sense  of  honour!  "  she  insisted,  as  he  threw 
back  his  head  and  laughed.      "  What  do  you  think 


1 


liMMWHHMMM 


62  THE  LANE  THAT  HAD  NO  TURNING 


might  be  my  reason  for  concealing  the  will — if  I  did 
conceal  it?  " 

"  The  answer  seems  obvious.  Why  does  the  wild 
ass  forage  with  a  strange  herd,  or  the  pig  put  his  feet 
in  the  trough?  Not  for  his  neighbour's  gain,  Madame, 
not  in  a  thousand  years!  " 

"  Monsieur,  I  have  never  been  spoken  to  so  coarsely. 
I  am  a  blacksmith's  daughter,  and  I  have  heard  rough 
men  talk  in  my  day;  but  I  have  never  heard  a  man — of 
my  own  race  at  least — so  rude  to  a  woman.  But  I  am 
here,  not  for  my  own  sake,  and  I  will  not  go  till  I  have 
said  and  done  all  I  have  come  to  say  and  do.  Will  you 
listen  to  me,  Monsieur?  " 

"  I  have  made  my  charges:  answer  them.  Disprove 
this  theft  " — he  held  up  the  will — "  of  concealment,  and 
enjoyment  of  property  not  your  own,  and  then  ask  of 
me  that  politeness  which  makes  so  beautiful  stable  and 
forge  at  Pontiac." 

"  Monsieur,  you  cannot  think  that  the  will  was  con- 
cealed for  profit,  for  the  value  of  the  Seigneury  of  Pon- 
tiac!    I  can  earn  two  such  seigneuries  in  one  year, 
Monsieur." 
*    "  Nevertheless  you  do  not." 

"  For  the  same  reason  that  I  did  not  bring  or  send 
that  will  to  you  when  I  found  it.  Monsieur.  Ari  for 
that  same  reason  I  have  come  to  ask  you  not  to  take 
advantage  of  that  will." 

He  was  about  to  interpose  angrily,  but  she  con- 
tinued: "  Whatever  the  rental  may  be  that  you  in  jus* 
tice  feel  should  be  put  upon  the  Seigneury  I  will  pay — 
from  the  hour  my  husband  entered  on  the  property,  its 
heir,  as  he  believed.  Put  such  rental  on  the  property, 
do  not  disturb  Monsieur  Racine  in  his  position  as  it  is, 
and  I  will  double  that  rental." 


THE  LANE  THAT  HAD  NO  TURNING  63 

**  Do  not  think,  Madame,  that  I  am  as  avaricious  as 
you." 

"  Is  it  avaricious  to  oflFer  double  the  worth  of  the 
rental?" 

"  There  is  the  title  and  distinction.  You  married  a 
mad  nobody;  you  wish  to  retain  an  honour  that  belongs 
to  me." 

"  I  am  asking  it  for  my  husband's  sake,  not  my  own, 
believe  me,  Monsieur." 

"  And  what  do  you  expect  me  to  do  for  his  sake, 
Madame?  " 

"  What  humanity  would  suggest.     Ah,  I  know  what 

you  would  say:  he  tried  to  kill  you;  he  made  you  fight 

him.     But,  Monsieur,  he  has  repented  of  that.     He  is 

ill,  he  is — crippled;  he  cherishes  the  Seigneury  beyond 

'its  worth  a  thousand  times." 

"  He  cherishes  it  at  my  expense.  So,  you  must 
not  disturb  the  man  who  robs  you  of  house  and  land 
and  trills  to  murder  you,  lest  he  should  be  disturbed 
and  not  sleep  o'  nights.  Come,  Madame,  that  is  too 
thin ! '' 

"  F.e  might  kill  you,  but  he  would  not  rob  you.  Mon- 
sieur     Do  you  think  that  if  he  knew  that  will  existed 
he  would  be  now  at  the  Seigneury,  or  I  here?    I  know 
,you  hate  Louis  Racine." 
-  "  With  ample  reason." 

"  You  hate  him  more  because  he  defeated  you  than 
because  he  once  tried  to  kill  you.  Oh,  I  do  not  know 
the  rights  or  wrongs  of  that  great  case  at  law;  I  only 
know  that  Louis  Racine  was  not  the  judge  or  jury,  but 
the  advocate  only,  whose  duty  it  was  to  do  as  he  did. 
That  he  did  it  the  more  gladly  because  he  was  a 
Frenchman  and  you  an  Englishman  is  not  his  fault,  or 
yours  either.     Louis  Racine's  people  came  here  two 


C4  THE  LANE  THAT  HAD  NO  TURNING 

hundred  years  ago,  yours  not  sixty  years  ago.  You, 
the  great  business  man,  have  had  praciical  power  v/hich 
gave  you  riches.  You  have  sacrificed  all  for  power. 
Louis  Racine  has  only  genius,  and  no  practical 
power " 

"  A  dangerous  fanatic  and  dreamer,"  he  interjected. 

"  A  dreamer  if  you  will,  '"th  ':  pr'  ctical  power,  for 
he  ntver  thought  .f  niniseij,  and  practical  power  is 
usually  all  self.  He  dre  me-  -he  i.^ave  his  heart  and 
soul  up  for  ideas.  Englishmen  ao  ne  nderstand  that. 
Do  you  not  know — you  do  know — that,  had  he  chosen, 
he  might  have  been  rich  too,  for  his  brains  would  have 
been  of  great  use  to  men  of  practical  power  like  vour- 
self." 

She  paused.  Fournel  did  not  answer,  but  sat  as 
though  reading  the  will  intendy. 

"  Was  it  strange  that  he  should  dream  of  a  French 
sovereign  state  here,  where  his  people  came  and  first 
possessed  the  land?  Can  you  won  ^t  that  this 
dreamer,  when  the  Seigneury  of  Pontiac  ^ame  to  him, 
felt  as  if  a  new  life  were  opened  up  to  him,  and  saw  a 
way  to  some  of  his  ambitions?  They  were  sad,  mis- 
taken anibitions,  doomed  to  failure,  but  they  were  also 
his  very  heart,  which  he  would  empty  out  gladly  for  an 
idea.  The  Seigneury  of  Pontiac  came  to  him,  a">d  I 
married  him." 

"  Evidently  bent  upon  wrecking  the  chances  of  a 
great  career,"  interrupted  Fournel  over  the  paper. 

"  Ah,  no.  I  also  cared  more  for  ideas  than  for  the 
sordid  things  of  life.  It  is  in  our  blood,  you  see  " — she 
was  talking  with  less  restraint  now,  for  she  saw  he  was 
listening,  despite  assumed  indifference — "  and  Pontiac 
was  dearer  to  me  than  all  else  in  the  world.  Louis 
Racine   belonged   there.      You — what   sort   of   place 


THE  LANE  THAT  HAD  NO  TURNING  65 

would  you  a  Englishman,  have  occupied  at  the  Sei- 
gneury  of  i    ntiac!     Whaf  kind " 

He  got  suddenly  t'»  his  feet.  He  wp  a  man  of 
strange  wlr  ns  ai  i  vanities,  and  his  resentment  at  his 
exclusion  lom  the  Seigneury  of  Pontiac  had  become 
a  tixed  idea.  H*-  had  iiugged  the  thought  of  its  pos- 
session before  M.  de  la  Riviere  died,  as  a  man  humbly 
born  prides  himself  on  the  distinguished  lineage  of  his 
wife.  His  great  schemes  were  completed,  he  was  a 
rich  man,  and  he  had  pictured  himself  retiring  to  this 
Seigneury,  a  peaceful  and  practical  figure  living  out  his 
days  in  a  refined  repose  which  his  earlier  life  had  never 
known.  She  had  touched  the  raw  nerves  of  his  secret 
vanity. 

"  What  kind  of  Seigneur  would  I  make,  eh?  What 
sort  of  figure  would  I  cut  in  Pontiac!  "  He  laughed 
loudly.  "  By  heaven,  Madame,  you  shall  seel  I  did 
not  move  against  his  outrage  and  assault,  but  I  will 
move  to  purpose  now.  For  you  and  he  shall  leave 
there  in  disgrace  before  another  week  goes  round.  I 
have  you  both  in  my  '  practical  power,'  and  I  will 
squeeze  satisfaction  out  of  you.  He  is  a  ruffianly  inter- 
loper, and  you,  Madame,  the  law  would  call  by  another 
name!  " 

She  got  quickly  to  her  feet  and  came  a  step  nearer 
to  him.  Leaning  a  hand  on  the  table,  she  bent  towards 
him  slightly.  Something  seemed  to  possess  her  that 
transfigured  her  face  and  gave  it  a  sense  of  power  and 
confidence.  Her  e3'es  fixed  themselves  steadily  on  him. 

"  Monsieur,"  she  said,  "  you  may  call  me  what  you 
will,  and  I  will  bear  it,  for  you  have  been  sorely  injured. 
You  are  angry  because  I  seemed  to  think  an  English- 
man was  not  fitted  to  be  Seigneur  of  Pontiac.  We 
French  are  a  people  of  sentiments  and  ideas ;  we  make 


(^   THE  LANE  THAT  HAD  NO  TURNING 

idols  of  trifles,  and  we  die  for  fancies.  We  dream,  we 
have  shrines  for  memories.  These  things  you  despise. 
You  would  give  us  justice  and  make  us  rich  by  what 
you  call '  progress.*  Ah,  Monsieur,  that  is  not  enough. 
We  are  not  born  to  appreciate  you.  Our  hearts  are 
higher  than  our  heads,  and,  under  a  flag  that  conquered 
us,  they  cling  together.  Was  it  strange  that  1  should 
think  Louis  Racine  better  suited  to  be  Seigneur  at 
Pontiac?" 

She  paused,  as  though  expecting  him  to  answer,  but 
he  only  looked  inquiringly  at  her,  and  she  continued: 

**  My  husband  used  you  ill,  but  he  is  no  interloper. 
He  took  what  the  law  gave  him,  what  has  been  in  his 
family  for  over  two  hundred  years.  Monsieur,  it  has 
meant  more  to  him  than  a  hundred  times  greater  hon- 
our could  to  you.  When  his  trouble  came;  when" — 
she  paused  as  though  it  was  difficult  to  speak — "  when 
the  other — legacy — of  his  family  descended  on  .  him, 
that  Seigneury  became  to  him  the  one  compensation  of 
his  life.  By  right  of  it  only  could  he  look  the  world  in 
the  face — or  me." 

She  stopped  suddenly,  for  her  voice  choked  her. 

"  Will  you  please  continue?  "  said  Fournel,  opening 
and  shutting  the  will  in  his  hand,  and  looking  ^t  her 
with  a  curious  new  consideration. 

"  Fame  came  to  me  as  his  trouble  came  to  him.  It 
was  hard  for  him  to  go  among  men,  but,  ah,  can  you 
think  how  he  dreaded  the  day  when  I  should  return  to 
Pontiac!  .  .  .  I  will  tell  you  the  whole  truth.  Mon- 
sieur." She  drew  herself  up  proudly.  "  I  loved — 
Louis.  He  came  into  my  heart  with  its  first  great 
dream,  and  before  life — the  business  of  life — really  be- 
gan. He  was  one  with  the  best  part  of  me,  the  girl- 
hood in  me  which  is  dead!  " 


THE  LANE  THAT  HAD  NO  TURNING  67 


m 


m 


Fournel  rose,  and  in  a  low  voice  said:  "  Will  you  not 
sit  down?  "     He  motioned  to  a  chair. 

She  shook  her  head.  **  Ah,  no,  please.  Let  me  say 
all  quickly  and  while  I  have  the  courage.  I  loved  him, 
and  he  loved  and  loves  me.  I  love  that  love  in  which 
I  married  him,  and  I  love  his  love  for  me.  It  is  inde- 
structible, because  it  is  in  the  fibre  of  my  life.  It  has 
nothing  to  do  with  ugliness  or  beauty,  or  fortune  or 
misfortune,  or  shame  o;  happiness,  or  sin  or  holiness. 
When  it  becomes  part  cf  us,  it  must  go  on  in  one  form 
or  another,  but  it  canuDt  die.  It  lives  in  breath,  and 
song,  and  thought,  and  work,  and  words.  That  is  the 
wonder  of  it,  the  pity  of  ii,and  the  joy  of  it.  Because  it  is 
so,  because  love  would  shield  the  beloved  from  itself  if 
need  be,  and  from  all  the  tenors  of  th?  world  at  any 
cost,  I  have  done  what  I  have  done.  I  did  it  at  cost 
of  my  honour,  but  it  was  for  his  sak°,  at  the  price  of  my 
peace,  but  to  spare  him.  Ah,  Monsieur,  the  days  of 
life  are  not  many  for  him,  his  shame  and  his  futile  aims 
are  killing  him.  The  clouds  will  soon  close  over,  and 
his  vexed  brain  and  body  will  be  still.  To  spare  him 
the  last  turn  of  the  wheel  of  torture,  to  give  him  the 
one  bare  honour  left  him  yet  a  little  while,  I  have  given 
up  my  work  of  life  to  comfort  him;  I  concealed — I 
vStole,  if  you  will — the  document  you  hold.  And,  God 
help  me!  I  would  do  it  again  and  yet  again,  if  I  lost  my 
soul  forever,  Monsieur.  Oh,  Monsieur,  I  know  that 
in  his  madness  he  would  have  killed  you,  but  it  was  his 
suffering,  not  a  bad  heart,  that  made  him  do  it.  Do 
a  sorrowful  woman  a  great  kindness  and  spare  him, 
Monsieur  I  " 

She  had  held  the  man  motionless  and  staring.  When 
she  ended,  he  got  to  his  feet,  and  came  near  to  her. 

There  was  a  curious  look  in  his  face — half  struggle, 


68   THE  LANE  THAT  HAD  NO  TURNING 

half  mysterious  purpose.  "  The  way  is  easy  to  a  hun- 
dred times  as  much!  "  he  said,  in  a  low,  meaning  voice, 
and  his  eyes  boldly  held  hers.  '*  You  are  doing  a 
chivalrous  sort  of  thing  that  only  a  woman  would  do 
— for  duty;  do  something  for  another  reason — for 
what  a  woman  would  do — for  the  blood  of  youth  that 
is  in  her."  He  reached  out  a  hand  to  lay  it  on  her  arm. 
"  Ask  of  me  what  you  will,  if  you  but  put  your  hand  in 

mine  and " 

"  Monsieur!  "  she  said,  pale  and  gasping,  "  do  you 
think  so  ill  of  me,  then?     Do  I  seem  to  you  like " 


s'he  turned  away,  her  eyes  dry  and  burning,  her  body 
trembling  with  shame. 

"  You  are  here  alone  with  me  at  night!  "  he  per- 
sisted.    "  It  would  not  be  easy  to " 

"  Death  would  be  easy.  Monsieur,"  she  said,  calmly 
and  coldly.  "  My  husband  tried  to  kill  you.  You 
would  do — ah,  but  let  me  pass!  "  she  said  with  a. sudden 
fury.  "You!  If  you  were  a  million  times  richer,  if 
you  could  ruin  me  forever,  do  you  think " 

"  Hush,  Madame!  "  he  said,  with  a  sudden  change 
of  voice  and  a  manner  all  reverence.  "  I  do  not  think. 
I  spoke  only  to  hear  you  speak  in  reply — only  to  know 
to  the  uttermost  what  you  were.  Madame,"  h'^  added, 
in  a  shaking  voice,  "  I  did  not  know  that  such  a  woman 
lived.  Madame,  I  could  have  sworn  there  was  none  in 
the  world."  Then  in  a  quicker,  huskier  note  he  added: 
"  Eighteen  years  ago  a  woman  nearly  spoiled  my  life. 
She  was  as  beautiful  as  you,  but  her  heart  was  tainted. 
Since  then  I  have  never  believed  in  any  woman — never 
till  now.  I  have  said  that  all  were  purchasable — at  a 
price.  I  unsay  that  now.  I  have  not  believed  in  any 
one " 

"  Oh,  Monsieur!  "  she  said,  with  a  quick,  impulsive 


G 


THE  LANE  THAT  HAD  NO  TURNING  69 


hun- 

ing  a 
[Id  do 
I — for 
li  that 
r  arm. 
and  in 


gesture  towards  liini,  and  her  face  hghting  with  sym- 
pathy. 

"  I  was  struck  too  hard " 

She  touched  his  arm  and  said  gently:  "  Some  are 
hurt  in  one  wav  and  some  in  another;  all  are  hurt  some- 
time,  but " 

"  You  shall  have  your  way,"  he  interrupted,  and 
moved  apart. 

"  Ah,  Monsieur,  Monsieur,  it  is  a  noble  act,"  she 
hurriedly  rejoined,  then  with  a  sudden  cry  rushed  to- 
wards him,  for  he  was  lighting  the  will  at  the  flame  of 
a  candle  near  him. 

"  Ah,  but  no,  no,  no,  you  shall  not  do  it!  "  she  cried, 
"  I  only  asked  it  for  while  he  lives — ah!  " 

She  collapsed  with  a  cry  of  despair,  for  he  had  held 
the  flaming  paper  above  her  reach,  and  its  ashes  were 
now  scattering  on  the  floor. 

"  You  will  let  mc  give  you  some  wine?  "  he  said 
quietly  and  poured  out  a  glassful. 


change 
t  think. 
|o  know 

added, 
woman 
none  in 

added : 
[my  life, 
tainted. 
I — never 

e — at  a 
in  any 


ipulsive 


a 


CHAPTER   IX 


THE    BITER   BITTEN 


n 


MADELINETTE  was  faint,  and,  sitting  down,  she 
drank  the  wine  feebly,  then  leaned  her  head 
against  the  back  of  the  cha'r,  her  face  turned  from 
Fournel. 

"  Forgive  me,  if  you  can,'*  he  said.  "  You  have  this 
to  comfort  you,  that  if  friendship  is  a  boon  in  this  world 
you  have  an  honest  friend  in  George  I'ournel." 

She  made  a  gesture  of  assent  with  her  hand,  but  she 
did  not  speak.  Tears  were  stealing  cuietly  down  her 
cold  face.  For  a  moment  so,  in  silence,  and  then  she 
rose  to  her  feet  and  pulled  down  over  her  face  the  veil 
she  wore.  She  was  about  to  hold  out  her  hand  to  him 
to  say  good-bye,  when  there  was  a  noise  without,  a 
knocking  at  the  door,  then  it  was  flung  open,  and  Tar- 
dif,  intoxicated,  entered,  followed  by  two  constables, 
and  Fournel's  servant  vainly  protesting. 

"  Here  she  is!  "  Tardif  said  to  the  officers  of  the  law, 
pointing  to  Madelinette.  "  It  was  her  set  the  fellow 
on  to  shoot  me.  I  had  the  will  she  stole  from  him! " 
he  added,  pointing  to  Fournel. 

Distressed  as  Madelinette  was,  she  was  composed 
and  ready, 

"  The  man  was  dismissed  my  employ — "  she  began, 
but  Fournel  interposed. 

"What  is  this  I  hear  about  shooting  and  a  will?" 
he  said  sternly. 


^  -.1^  / 


THE  LANE  THAT  HAD  NO  TURNING  71 


vn,  she 
r  head 
1  from 

ive  this 
s  world 

but  she 
)vvn  her 
hen  she 
the  veil 
to  him 
lout,  a 
nd  Tar- 
istables, 

he  law, 

e  fellow 

him! 

Dmposed 

e  began, 

will?" 


"What  will!"  cried  Tardif.  "The  will  I  brought 
you  from  Pontiac,  and  Madame  there  followed  and  her 
servant  shot  me.  The  will  I  brought  you,  Monsieur. 
The  will  leaving  the-iManor  of  Pontiac  to  you!  " 

Fournel  turned  as  though  with  sudden  anger  to  the 
officers.  "  You  come  here — you  enter  my  house  to 
interfere  with  a  guest  of  mine  on  the  charge  of  a 
drunken  scoundrel  like  this!  What  is  this  talk  of  wills! 
The  vapourings  of  his  foul  brain.  The  Seigneury  of 
Pontiac  belongs  to  Monsieur  Racine,  and  but  three 
days  since  Madame  here  dismissed  this  fellow  for  pil- 
fering and  other  misdemeanours.  As  for  shooting — - 
the  man  is  a  liar  and " 

"  Ah,  do  you  deny  that  I  came  to  you — "  began 
Tardif. 

"  Constables,"  said  Fournel,  "  I  give  this  fellow  in 
charge.  Take  him  to  gaol,  and  I  will  appear  at  court 
against  him  when  called  upon." 

Tardif's  rage  choked  him.  He  tried  to  speak  once 
or  twice,  then  began  to  shriek  an  imprecation  at  Four- 
nel, but  the  constables  clapped  hands  on  his  mouth 
and  dragged  him  out  of  the  room  and  out  of  the 
house. 

Fournel  saw  him  safely  out,  then  returned  to  Made- 
linette.  "  Do  not  fear  for  the  fellow.  A  little  gaol 
will  do  him  good.  I  will  see  to  it  that  he  gives  no 
trouble,  Madame,"  he  said.     "  You  may  trust  me." 

"  I  do  trust  you.  Monsieur,"  Madelinette  answered 
quiedy.     "  I  pray  that  you  may  be  right,  and  that " 

"  It  will  all  come  out  right,  Madame,"  he  firmly  in- 
sisted. 

"  Will  you  ask  for  Madame  Marie?  "  she  said.  Then, 
with  a^smile,  "  We  will  go  happier  than  we  came." 

As  she  and  Madame  Marie  passed  from  the  house, 


u 


72  THE  LANE  THAT  HAD  NO  TURNING 

Fournel  shook  Madelinette's  hand  warmly  and  said: 
"  *  All's  well  that  ends  well'  " 

"  '  That  ends  well! '  "  answered  Madelinette,  with  a 
sorrowful  questioning  in  her  voice. 

"  We  will  make  it  so,"  he  rejoined,  and  then  they 
parted. 


CHAPTER  X 


THE  DOOR  THAT  WOULD  NOT  OPE!^ 


THE  old  Manor  House  of  Pontiac  was  alive  with 
light  and  merriment.  It  was  the  early  autumn; 
not  cool  enough  for  the  doors  and  windows  to  be  shut, 
but  cool  enough  to  make  dancing  a  pleasure,  and  to 
give  spirit  to  the  gaiety  that  filled  the  old  house.  The 
occasion  was  a  notable  one  for  Pontiac.  An  address 
of  congratulation  and  appreciation  and  a  splendid  gift 
of  silver  had  been  brought  to  the  manor  from  the  capi- 
tal by  certain  high  officials  of  the  Government  and  the 
army,  representing  the  people  of  the  province.  At  first 
Aladelinette  had  shrunk  from  the  honour  to  be  done 
her,  and  had  so  written  to  certain  quarters  whence  the 
movement  had  proceeded,  but  a  letter  had  come  to  her 
which  had  changed  her  mind.  This  letter  v/as  signed 
George  Fourucl.  Fournel  had  a  right  to  ask  a  favour 
of  her;  and  one  that  was  to  do  her  honour  seemed  tne 
least  that  she  might  grant.  Kc  had  suffered  much  at 
Louis'  hands;  he  had  forborne  much;  and  by  an  act 
of  noble  forgiveness  and  generosity  had  left  Louis  un- 
disturbed in  an  honour  which  was  not  his  and  the  en- 
joyment of  an  estate  to  which  he  had  no  claim.  He 
had  given  much,  suffered  much,  and  had  had  nothing  in 
return  save  her  measureless  and  voiceless  gratitude. 
Friendship  she  could  give  him;  but  it  was  a  silent 
friendship,  an  incompanionable  friendship,  founded 
upon  a  secret  and  chivalrous  act.     He  was  in  Quebec 


74  THE  LANE  THAT  HAD  NO  TURNING 


and  she  in  Pontine,  and  since  that  day  when  he  had 
burnt  the  will  before  her  eyes  she  had  not  seen  him. 
She  had  heard  from  him  but  twice;  once  to  tell  her  that 
she  need  have  no  fear  of  Tardif,  and  again  when  he 
urged  her  to  accept  the  testimonial  and  the  gift  to  be 
offered  by  her  grateful  fellow-citizens  in  token  of  their 
admiration. 

The  deputation — distinguished  and  important — had 
1  een  received  by  the  people  of  Pontiac  with  the  flaunt- 
ing of  flags,  playing  of  bands,  and  every  demonstration 
of  delight.  The  honour  done  to  Madelinette  was  an 
honoui  done  to  Pontiac;  and  Pontiac  had  never  felt 
itself  so  important.  It  realised  that  this  kind  of  demon- 
stration was  less  expensive  and  less  dangerous  than 
sedition,  privy-conspiracy,  and  rebellion.  The  vanity 
of  the  habitants  could  be  better  exercised  in  applauding 
Madelinette,  and  in  show  of  welcome  to  the  great  men 
of  the  land,  than  in  cultivating  a  dangerous  patriotism 
under  the  leadership  of  Louis  Racine.  Temptations 
to  conspiracy  had  been  few  since  the  day  George  Four- 
nel,  wounded  and  morose,  left  the  Manor  House 
secretly  one  night,  and  carried  back  to  Qu'^bec  his  re- 
sentment and  his  injuries.  Treasonable  gossip  filtered 
no  longer  from  doorway  to  doorway;  carbines  were 
not  to  be  had  for  a  song;  no  more  nightly  drills  and 
weekly  meetings  gave  a  spice  of  great  expectations  to 
their  life.  Their  Seigneur,  silent  and  pale  and  stooped, 
lived  a  life  apart.  If  he  walked  through  the  town,  it 
was  with  bitter,  abstracted  eyes  that  took  little  heed  of 
their  presence.  If  he  drove,  his  horses  travelled  like 
the  wiau.  At  Mass  he  looked  at  no  one,  saw  no  one, 
and,  as  it  v.'^v'ld  scjm,  heard  no  one. 

B'lt  Madeiia^ttc — she  was  'he  Madelinette  of  old; 
simple,  r'^vcious,  kirivl,  with  a  smile  here  and  a  kind 


NG 


THE  LANE  THAT  HAD  NO  TURNING  75 


he  had 
;n  him. 
ler  that 
hen  he 
t  to  be 
of  their 

It— had 
flaunt- 
stration 
was  an 
ver  felt 
demon- 
US  than 
:  vanity 
lauding 
eat  men 
triotism 
ptations 
e  Four- 
House 
:  his  re- 
filtered 
|es  were 
ills  and 
tions  to 
stooped, 
town,  it 
heed  of 
led  like 
no  one, 

of  old; 
a  kind 


word  t>cre:  a  little  child  to  be  caressed  or  an  old 
woman  to  be  comforted,  the  sick  to  be  fed  and  doc- 
tored, the  poor  to  be  helped,  the  idle  to  be  rebuked  with 
a  persuasive  smile,  the  angry  to  be  coaxed  by  a  humor- 
ous word,  the  evil  to  be  reproved  by  a  fearless  friendli- 
ness, the  spiteful  to  be  hushed  by  a  still,  commanding 
presence.  She  never  seemed  to  remember  that  she  was 
the  daughter  of  old  Joe  Lajeunesse  the  blacksmith,  yet 
she  never  seemed  to  forget  it.  She  v;as  the  wife  of  the 
Seigneur,  and  she  was  the  daughter  of  the  smithy-man 
too.  She  sat  in  the  smithy-man's  doorway  with  her 
hand  in  his,  and  she  sat  at  the  manor  table  with  its 
silver  glitter,  and  its  antique  garnishings,  with  as  real 
an  unconsciousness. 

Her  influence  seemed  to  pierce  far  and  wide.  The 
Cure  and  the  Avocat  adored  her,  and  the  proudest,  hap- 
piest moments  of  their  lives  was  when  they  sat  at  the 
manor  table  or,  in  the  sombre  drawing-room,  watched 
her  give  it  light  and  grace  and  charm  and  fill  their 
hearts  with  the  piercing  delight  of  her  song.  So  her  life 
had  gone  on;  to  the  outward  world  serene  and  happy, 
full  of  simplicity,  charity,  and  good  works.  What  it 
was  in  reality  no  one  could  know,  not  even  herself. 
Since  the  day  when  Louis  had  tried  to  kill  George 
Fournel,  life  had  been  a  different  thing  for  them  both. 
On  her  part  she  had  been  deeply  hurt;  wounded  beyond 
repair.  He  had  failed  her  from  every  vital  stand-point; 
he  had  not  fulfilled  one  hope  sht  had  ever  had  of  him. 
But  she  laid  the  blame  not  at  his  door;  she  rather 
shrank  with  inner  bitterness  from  the  cynical  cruelty  of 
nature,  which,  in  deforming  the  body,  with  a  merciless 
cruelty  had  deformed  a  noble  mind.  These  things  were 
between  her  and  her  inmost  soul. 

To    Louis    she   was    ever    the    same — affectionate, 


76  THE  LANE  THAT  HAD  NO  TURNING 


gentle,  and  unselfish — but  her  stronger  soul  ruled  him 
without  his  knowledge;  commanded  his  perturbed 
spirit  into  the  abstracted  quiet  and  bitter  silence  where- 
in he  lived,  and  which  she  sought  to  cheer  by  a  thou- 
sand happy  devices.  She  did  not  let  him  think  that 
she  was  giving  up  anything  for  him;  no  word  or  act  of 
hers  could  have  suggested  to  him  the  sacrifices  she  had 
made.  He  knew  them,  still  he  did  not  know  them  in 
their  fulness;  he  was  grateful,  but  his  gratitude  did  not 
compass  the  splendid  self-effacing  devotion  with  which 
she  denied  herself  the  glorious  career  that  had  lain  be- 
fore her.  Morbid  and  self-centred,  he  could  not  under- 
stand. Since  her  return  from  Quebec  she  had  sought 
to  give  a  little  touch  of  gaiety  to  their  life,  and  she  had 
not  the  heart  to  interfere  with  his  constant  insistence 
on  the  little  dignities  of  the  position  of  Seigneur,  iron- 
ical as  they  all  were  in  her  eyes.  She  had  sacrificed 
everything,  and  since  another  also  had  sacrificed  him- 
self to  give  her  husband  the  honours  and  estate  he  pos- 
sessed the  game  should  be  delicately  played  to  the 
unseen  end. 

So  it  had  gone  on  until  'he  coming  of  the  deputa- 
tion with  the  testimonial  and  the  gift.  She  had  pro- 
posed the  gaieties  of  the  occasion  to  Louis  with  so 
simple  a  cheerfulness  that  he  had  no  idea  of  the  torture 
i.  meant  to  her;  no  realisation  of  how  she  would  be 
brought  face  to  face  with  the  life  that  she  had  given  up 
for  his  sake.  But  neither  he  nor  she  was  aware  of  one 
thing,  that  the  beautiful  embossed  address  contained 
an  appeal  to  her  to  return  to  the  world  of  song  which 
she  had  renounced;  to  go  forth  once  more  and  con- 
tribute to  the  happiness  of  humanity. 

When,  therefore,  in  the  drawing-room  of  the  manor, 
the  address  was  read  to  her,  and  this  appeal  rang  upon 


lights 


MMH 


THE  LANE  THAT  HAD  NO  TURNING  77 


her  ears,  she  felt  herself  turn  dizzy  and  faint;  her  whole 
life  seemed  to  reel  backwards  to  all  she  had  lost,  and 
the  tyranny  of  the  present  bore  down  upon  her  with  a 
cruel  weight.  It  needed  all  her  courage  and  all  her 
innate  strength  to  rule  herself  to  composure.  For  an 
instant  the  people  in  the  room  were  a  confused  mass, 
iloating  away  into  a  blind  distance.  She  heard,  how- 
ever, the  quick  breathing  of  the  Seigneur  beside  her, 
and  it  called  her  back  to  an  active  and  necessary  con- 
fidence. 

With  a  smile  she  received  the  address,  and,  turning, 
handed  it  to  Louis,  smiling  at  him  too  with  a  winning 
duplicity,  for  which  she  might  never  have  to  ask  for- 
giveness in  this  world  or  the  next.  Then  she  turned 
and  spoke.  Eloquently,  simply,  she  gave  out  her 
thanks  for  the  gift  of  silver  and  the  greater  gift  of  kind 
words,  and  said  that  in  her  quiet  life,  apart  from  that 
active  world  of  the  stage,  where  sorrow  and  sordid  ex- 
perience went  hand  in  hand  with  song,  where  the  de- 
lights of  home  were  sacrificed  to  the  applause  of  the 
world,  she  would  cherish  their  gift  as  a  reward  that 
she  might  have  earned  had  she  chosen  the  public  in- 
stead of  the  private  way  of  life.  They  had  told  her  of 
the  paths  of  glory;  but  she  was  walking  the  homeward 
way. 

Thus  deftly  and  without  strain,  and  with  an  air  of 
happiness  even,  did  she  set  aside  the  words  and  the 
appeal  which  had  created  a  storm  in  her  soul.  A  few 
moments  afterwards,  as  the  old  house  rang  to  the 
laughter  of  old  and  young,  with  dancing  well  begun, 
no  one  would  liave  thought  that  the  Manor  of  Pontiac 
was  not  the  home  of  peace  and  joy.  Even  Louis  him- 
self, who  had  had  his  moments  of  torture  and  suspicion 
when  the  appeal  was  read,  was  now  m  a  kind  of  happy 


I 


;8  THE  LANE  THAT  HAD  NO  TURNING 


,'!       a 


reaction.  He  moved  about  among  the  guests  with  less 
abstraction  and  more  cheerfulness  than  he  had  shown 
in  months.  He  carried  in  his  hand  the  address  which 
Madelinette  had  handed  him.  Again  and  again  lie 
showed  it  to  eager  guests. 

Suddenly,  as  he  was  about  to  fold  it  up  for  the  last 
time,  and  carry  it  to  the  library,  he  saw  the  name  of 
George  J'uurnel  among  the  signatures.  Stunned, 
dumfounded,  he  left  the  room.  George  Fournel, 
whom  he  had  tried  to  kill,  had  signed  this  address  of 
congratulation  to  his  wife!  Was  it  Fournel's  intention 
thus  to  show  that  he  had  forgiven  and  forgotten?  It 
was  not  like  the  man  to  either  forgive  or  forget.  What 
did  it  mean?  He  left  the  house,  buried  in  morbid  specu- 
lation, and  involuntarily  made  his  way  to  a  little  hut  of 
two  ruums  which  he  had  built  in  the  Seigneury 
grounds.  Here  it  was  he  read  and  wrote,  here  he  had 
spent  moody  hours  alone,  day  after  day,  for  months 
past.  Pie  was  not  aware  that  some  one  left  the  crowd 
about  the  house  ai ';  followed  him.  Arrived  at  the  hut, 
he  entered  and  shut  the  door;  lighted  candles  and 
spread  the  embossed  parchment  out  before  him  upon 
the  table.  As  he  stood  looking  at  it,  he  heard  the  door 
open  behind  him.     Tardif  stood  before  him. 

The  face  of  Tardif  had  an  evil,  hunted  look.  Before 
the  astonished  and  suspicious  Seigneur  had  chance  to 
challenge  him,  he  said  in  a  low,  insolent  tone: 

"  Good  evening,  M'sieu'  !  Fine  doings  at  the  manor 
—eh?" 

"  What  are  you  doing  at  the  manor,  and  what  are 
you  doing  here?"  asked  the  Seigneur,  scanning  the 
face  of  the  man  closely,  for  thee  was  a  look  in  it  he 
did  not  understand. 

"  I  have  as  much  right  to  be  Ik  e  as  you,  M'sieu'." 


^. 


TG 


THE  LANE  THAT  HAD  NO  TURNING   79 


;h  less 
;ho\vn 
which 
tin   lie 

le  last 
.me  of 
.inned, 
)urnel, 
ress  of 
;ention 
n?     It 

What 
specu- 

hut  of 
gneury 
he  had 
months 

crowd 
he  hut, 
es  and 
n  upon 
le  door 

Before 
ance  to 

manor 

hat  are 
ing  the 
m  it  he 


leu'." 


"  You  have  no  right  at  all  to  be  here.  You  were  dis- 
missed your  place  by  the  mistress  of  this  manor." 

"  There  is  no  mistress  of  this  manor." 

"  Madame  Racine  dismissed  you." 

"  And  I  dismissed  Madame  Racine,"  answered  the 
man,  with  a  sneer. 

"  You  arc  training  for  the  horsewhip.  You  forget 
that,  as  Seigneur,  I  have  power  to  give  you  summary 
punishment." 

"  You  haven't  power  to  do  anything  at  all,  M'sieu'!  " 

The  Seigneur  started.  He  thought  the  remark  had 
reference  to  his  physical  disability.  His  fingers  itched 
to  take  the  creature  by  the  throat  and  choke  the  tongue 
from  his  mouth.  Before  he  could  speak  the  man  con- 
tinued with  a  half-drunken  grimace : 

"  You  with  your  tributes,  and  your  courts,  and  your 
body-guards!  Bah!  You'd  have  a  gibbet  if  you 
could,  wouldn't  you?  You  with  your  rebellion  and 
your  tin-pot  honours!  A  puling  baby  could  conspire 
as  well  as  you.  And  all  the  world  laughing  at  you — 
v'la! " 

"  Get  out  of  this  room  and  take  your  feet  from  my 
manor,  Tardif,"  said  the  Seigneur  with  a  deadly  quiet- 
ness, "  or  it  will  be  the  worse  for  you." 

"  Your  manor — pish!  "  The  man  laughed  a  hateful 
laugh.  "Your  manor!  You  haven't  any  manor.  You 
haven't  anythiig  but  what  you  carry  on  your  back!  " 

A  flush  passed  swiftly  over  the  Seigneur's  face,  then 
left  it  cold  and  white,  and  the  eyes  shone  fiery  in  his 
head.  He  felt  some  shameful  meaning  in  the  man's 
words  beyond  this  gross  reference  to  his  deformity. 

"  I  am  Seigneur  of  this  manor,  and  you  have  taken 
wages  from  me  and  eaten  my  bread,  slept  under  my 
roof,  and " 


8o  THE  LANE  THAT  HAD  NO  TURNING 


[\    :  ii 


"  I've  no  more  eaten  your  bread  and  sle[)t  under  your 
roof  than  you  have.  Pish!  You  were  hving  then  on 
another  man's  fortune,  now  you're  living  on  what  your 
wife  earns!  " 

The  Seig-ncur  did  not  understand  yet.  But  there 
was  a  strange  light  of  suspicion  in  his  eyes,  a  nervous 
rage  knotting  his  forehead. 

'*  My  land  and  my  earnings  are  my  own,  and  I  have 
never  lived  on  another  man's  fortune.  If  you  mean 
that  Lhe  late  Seigneur  made  a  will — that  canard " 

"  It  was  no  canard."  Tardif  laughed  hatefully. 
"  There  was  a  will,  right  enough!  " 

"  Where  is  it?     I've  heard  that  fool's  gossip  before!  " 

"  Where  is  it?  Ask  your  wife.  She  knows.  Ask 
your  loving  Tardif — he  knows!  " 

"  Where  is  the  will,  Tardif?  "  asked  the  Seigneur  v.l 
a  voice  that,  in  his  own  ears,  seemed  to  come  from  m 
infinite  distance.  To  Tardif's  ears  it  was  merely  ture- 
less  and  harsh. 

"In  M'sieu'  Fournci's  pocket  —  or  Madame's! 
What's  the  difiference?  The  price  is  the  same;  and  yoi' 
keep  your  eyes  shut  and  play  the  Seigneur  and  eat  and 
drink  what  they  give  you  just  the  same!  " 

Now  the  Seigneur  understood.  His  eyes  went  blind 
for  a  moment,  and  his  hands  twitched  convulsively  on 
the  embossed  address  he  had  been  rolling  and  ur.roll- 
ing.  A  terror,  a  shame,  a  dreadful  cruelty  entered 
into  him,  but  he  was  still  and  numb,  and  his  tongue 
was  thick.     He  spoke  heavily. 

"  Tell  me  all !  "  he  said.     "  You  shall  be  well  paid." 

"  I  don't  want  your  money.  I  want  to  see  you 
squirm.  I  want  to  see  her  put  where  she  deserves. 
Bah!  Do  3'ou  think  Fournel  forgave  you  for  putting 
your  feet  in  his  shoes  and  for  that  case  at  law  for  noth- 


THE  LANE  THAT  HAD  NO  TURNING  8i 


I  " 


id." 

you 
erves. 
itttng 
noth- 


ing? Why  should  he?  Hu  hated  you,  and  you  hated 
liim.  His  name's  on  that  paper  in  your  hand  among 
all  the  rest.  Do  you  think  he  eats  luunblc  pie  and 
crawls  to  Madame  and  lets  vou  stay  here — for  noth- 
ing?" 

The  Seigneur  was  painfully  r|uict  and  intent,  yet  his 
brain  was  like  some  great  lens  refracting  and  magnify- 
ing things  to  monstrous  proportions. 

"  A  will  was  found?  "  he  asked. 

"  By  "Maciame,  in  the  library.  She  left  it  where  she 
found  it — behind  the  picture  over  the  Louis  Seize  table. 
I  found  it  too,  on  the  day  you  dismissed  mc.  I  found 
it,  and  started  away  with  it  to  M'sieu'  Fournel.  She 
followed.  You  remember  when  she  went — eh?  On 
business — and  such  business — she  and  Havel  and  the 
old  slut,  Marie.  You  remember,  eh,  Louis?  "  he  added 
with  unnamable  insolence.  The  Seigneur  inclined  his 
head.  "P^/a!  they  followed  me,  overtook  me,  and 
Havel  shot  me  in  the  wrist — see  there!  "  He  held  out 
his  wrist.  The  Seigneur  nodded.  **  But  I  got  to  Four- 
ncl's  first.  I  put  the  will  into  his  hands.  I  told  him 
Madame  Madelinette  was  following.  Then  I  went  to 
bring  the  constables  to  his  house  to  arrest  her  when  he 
had  finished  with  her."  He  laughed  a  brutal  laugh, 
which  deepened  the  strange,  glittering  look  in  Louis' 
eyes.  "  When  I  came  an  hour  later  she  was  there. 
But — now  you  shall  see  what  stuff  they  are  both  made 
of!  He  laughed  at  me.  Said  I  had  lied;  that  there  was 
no  will,  that  I  was  a  thief,  and  had  me  locked  up  in  gaol. 
For  a  month  I  was  in  gaol  without  trial.  Then  one 
:lay  I  was  let  out — without  trial.  His  servant  met  me 
and  brought  me  to  his  house.  He  gave  me  money  and 
told  me  to  leave  the  country.  If  I  didn't  I  would  be 
arrested  again — for  trying  to  shoot  Havel,  and  for 
6 


^, 


"^o. 


IMAGE  EVALUATION 
TEST  TARGET  (MT-3) 


1.0 


I.I 


1.25 


1^  mil  2.2 


^  h^     M 


1.8 


U    ill  1.6 


V] 


^/^' 


o 


/ 


:^  ^> 


/ 


>^ 


Photographic 

Sciences 

Corporation 


23  WEST  MAIN  STREET 

WEBSTER,  NY.  14580 

(716)  872-4503 


l*v 


82  THE  LANE  THAT  HAD  NO  TURNING 


blackmail.  They  could  all  swear  me  off  my  feet  and 
into  prison — what  was  I  to  do?  I  took  the  money  and 
went.  But  I  came  back  to  have  my  revenge.  I  could 
cut  their  hearts  out  and  eat  them." 

"  You  are  drunk !  "  said  the  Seigneur  quietly.  "  You 
don't  know  what  you're  saying." 

"  I'm  not  drunk.  I'm  always  trying  to  get  drunk 
now.  I  couldn't  have  come  here  if  I  hadn't  been  drink- 
ing. I  couldn't  have  told  you  the  truth  if  I  hadn't 
been  drinking.  But  I'm  sober  enough  to  know  that 
I've  done  for  him  and  for  her !  And  I'm  even  with  you 
too — bah!  Did  you  think  she  cared  a  fig  for  you? 
She's  only  waiting  till  you  die.  Then  she'll  go  to  her 
lover.  He's  a  man  of  life  and  limb.  You — pish!  a 
hunchback  that  all  the  world  laughs  at,  a  worm — " 
he  turned  towards  the  door,  laughing  hideously,  his 
evil  face  gloating.  "  You've  not  got  a  slick  or  stone. 
She  " — jerking  a  finger  towards  the  house — "  she  earns 
what  you  eat,  she " 

It  was  the  last  word  he  ever  spoke,  for,  with  a  low, 
terrible  cry,  the  Seigneur  snatched  up  a  knife  from  the 
table  and  sprang  upon  him,  catching  him  by  the  throat. 
Once,  twice,  thric^  the  knife  went  home,  and  tiie  ruffian 
collapsed  under  it  with  one  loud  cry.  Not  letting  go 
his  grasp  of  the  dying  man's  collar,  the  Seigneur 
dragged  him  across  the  floor,  and,  opening  the  door  of 
the  small  inner  room,  pulled  him  inside.  For  a  mo- 
ment he  stood  beside  the  body  panting,  then  he  went  to 
the  other  room,  and  bringing  a  candle  looked  at  the 
dead  thing  in  silence.  Presently  he  stooped,  held  the 
candle  to  the  wide-staring  eyes,  then  felt  the  heart. 

"  He  is  gone,"  he  said  in  an  even  voice.  Stooping  for 
the  knife  he  had  dropped  on  the  floor,  he  laid  it  on  the 
body.    He  looked  at  his  hands.    There  was  one  ^pot 


THE  LANE  THAT  HAD  NO  TURNING  83 

of  blood  on  his  fingers.  He  wiped  it  off  with  his  hand- 
kerchief, then,  blowing  out  the  light,  he  calmly  opened 
the  door  of  the  hut,  locked  it,  went  out,  and  moved  on 
slowly  towards  the  house. 

He  was  conscious  that  as  he  left  the  hut  some  one 
was  moving  under  the  trees  by  the  window,  but  his 
mind  was  not  concerned  with  things  outside  himself 
and  the  one  other  thing  left  for  him  to  do. 

He  entered  the  house  and  went  in  search  of  Made- 
linette.  When  he  reached  the  drawing-room,  sur- 
rounded by  eager  listeners,  she  was  beginning  to  sing. 
Her  bearing  was  eager  and  almost  tremulous,  for,  with 
this  crowd  round  her  and  in  the  flush  of  this  gaiety  and 
excitement,  there  was  something  of  that  exhilarating 
air  that  greets  the  singer  upon  the  stage.  Her  eyes 
were  shining  with  a  look  half  sorrowful,  lialf  triumph- 
ant. Within  the  past  half-hour  she  had  overcome  her- 
self, she  had  fought  down  the  blind  wild  rebellion  that, 
for  one  moment,  rs  it  were,  had  surged  up  in  her  heart. 
She  was  proud  and  glad,  and  piteous  and  triumphant, 
and  deeply  womanly  all  at  once. 

Going  to  the  piano,  she  had  looked  round  for  Louis, 
but  he  was  not  visible.  She  smiled  to  herself,  however, 
for  she  knew  that  her  singing  would  bring  him — he 
worshipped  it.  Her  heart  was  warm  towards  him,  be- 
cause of  that  moment  when  she  rebelled  and  was  hard 
at  soul.  She  played  her  own  accompaniment,  and  he 
was  hidden  from  her  by  the  piano  as  she  sang — sang 
more  touchingly  and  more  humanly,  if  not  more  artis- 
tically, than  she  had  ever  done  in  her  life.  The  old  art 
was  not  so  perfect  perhaps,  but  there  was  in  the  voice 
all  that  she  had  learned  and  loved  and  suffered  and 
hoped.  When  she  rose  from  the  piano  to  a  storm  of 
applause,  and  saw  the  shining  faces  and  tearful  eyes 


1-4 


84  THE  LANE  THAT  HAD  NO  TURNING 

round  her,  her  own  eyes  filled  with  tears.  These  people 
— most  of  them — had  known  and  loved  her  since  she 
was  a  child,  and  loved  her  still  without  envy  or  any 
taint.  Her  father  was  standing  near,  and  with  smiling 
face  she  caught  the  handkerchief  with  which  he  was 
mopping  his  eyes  from  his  hand,  and  kissed  him, 
saying: 

"  I  learned  that  from  the  tunes  you  played  on  your 
anvil,  dear  smithy-man! " 

Then  she  turned  again  to  look  for  Louis.  Near  the 
door  she  saw  him,  and  with  so  strange  a  face,  so  wild 
a  look,  that,  unheeding  eager  requests  to  sing  again, 
she  responded  to  the  gesture  he  made,  made  her  way 
through  the  crowd  to  the  hall-way,  and  followed  him 
up  the  stairs,  and  to  the  little  boudoir  beside  her  bed- 
room. As  she  entered  and  shut  the  door,  a  low  sound 
like  a  moan  broke  from  him.  She  went  quickly  to  him 
to  lay  a  hand  upon  his  arm,  but  he  waved  her  back. 

"  What  is  it,  Louis?  "  she  asked,  in  a  bewildered 
voice. 

"  Where  is  the  will?  "  he  said. 

"  Where  is  the  will,  Louis! "  she  repeated  after  him 
mechanically,  staring  at  his  face,  ghostly  in  the  moon- 
light. 

"  The  will  you  found  behind  the  picture  in  the 
library." 

"  Oh,  Louis !  "  she  cried,  and  made  a  gesture  of  de- 
spair.    "  Oh,  Louis!  " 

"  You  found  it,  and  Tardif  stole  it  and  took  it  to 
Quebec." 

"  Yes,  Louis,  but  Louis — ah,  what  is  the  matter, 
dear?  I  cannot  bear  that  look  in  your  face.  What  is 
the  matter,  Louis?" 

"  Tardif  took  it  to  Fournel,  and  you  followed.    And 


THE  LANE  THAT  HAD  NO  TURNING  85 

I  have  been  living  in  another  man's  house,  on  another's 
bread " 

"  Oh,  Louis,  no— no — no!  Our  money  has  paid  for 
all." 

"  Your  money,  Madelinette!  "     His  voice  rose. 

"  Ah,  don't  speak  like  that.  See,  Louis.  It  can 
make  no  diflference.  How  you  have  found  out  I  do  not; 
know,  but  it  can  make  no  difference.  I  did  not  want 
you  to  know — you  loved  the  Seigneury  so!  I  con- 
cealed the  will.  Tardif  found  it,  as  you  say.  But, 
Louis,  dear,  it  is  all  right.  Monsieur  Fournel  would 
not  take  the  place,  and — and  I  have  bought  it." 

She  told  her  falsehood  fearlessly.  This  man's  trou- 
ble, this  man's  peace,  if  she  might  but  win  it,  was  the 
purpose  of  her  life. 

"  Tardif  said  that.  He  said  that  you — that  you  and 
Fournel " 

She  read  his  meaning  in  his  tone  and  shrank  back  in 
terror,  then,  with  a  flush,  straightened  herself,  and  took 
a  step  towards  him. 

"  It  was  natural  that  you  should  not  care  for  a  hunch- 
back like  me,"  he  continued,  "  but " 

"  Louis ! "  she  cried  in  a  voice  of  anguish  and 
reproach. 

"  But  I  did  not  doubt  you.  I  believed  in  you  when 
he  said  it,  as  I  believe  in  you  now  when  you  stand  there 
like  that.     I  know  what  you  have  done  for  me " 

"  I  pleaded  with  Monsieur  Fournel,  knowing  how 
you  loved  the  Seigneury — pleaded  and  offered  to  pay 
three  times  the  price " 

"  Yourself  would  have  been  a  hundred  million  times 
the  price!  Ah,  I  know  you,  Madelinette — I  know  you 
now.  I  have  been  selfish,  but  I  see  all  now.  Now 
when  all  is  over  " — he  seemed  listening  to  noises  with- 


1?; 


M 


86  THE  LANE  THAT  HAD  NO  TURNING 

out — "  I  see  what  you  have  clone  for  me.  I  know  how 
you  have  sacrificed  all  for  me — all  but  honour — all 
but  honour !  "  he  added,  a  wild  fire  in  his  eyes,  a  trem- 
bling seizing  him.  **  Your  honour  is  yours  forever. 
I  say  so.  I  say  so,  and  I  have  proved  it.  Kiss  me, 
IVIadelinette,  kiss  me  once ! "  he  added  in  a  quick 
whisper. 

"  My  poor,  poor  Louis!  "  she  said,  laid  a  soothing 
hand  upon  his  arm,  and  leaned  towards  him.  He 
snatched  her  to  his  breast  and  kissed  her  twice  in  a 
very  agony  of  joy,  then  let  her  go.  He  listened  for  an 
instant  to  the  growing  noise  without,  then  said  in  a 
hoarse  voice : 

"  Now  I  will  tell  you,  Madelinette.  They  are  com- 
ing for  me — don't  you  hear  them?  They  are  coming 
to  take  me,  but  they  shall  not  have  me.  They  shall  not 
have  me."  He  glanced  to  a  little  door  that  led  into  a 
bathroom  at  his  right. 

"  Louis!  Louis!"  she  said,  in  a  sudden  fright,  for, 
though  his  words  seemed  mad,  a  strange,  quiet  sanity 
was  in  all  he  did.  "  What  have  you  done?  Who  are 
coming?  "  she  asked  in  agony,  and  caught  him  by  the 
arm. 

"  I  killed  Tardif.  He  is  there  in  the  hut  in  the  gar- 
den— dead!  I  was  seen,  I  know,  and  they  are  coming 
to  take  me." 

With  a  cry  she  ran  to  the  door  that  led  into  the  hall 
and  locked  it.  She  listened,  then  turned  her  face  to 
Louis. 

"  You  killed  him!  "  she  gasped.  "  Louis!  Louis!  " 
Her  face  was  like  ashes. 

"  I  stabbed  him  to  death.  It  was  all  I  could  do,  and 
I  did  it.  He  slandered  you.  I  went  mad,  and  did  it. 
Now " 


THE  LANE  THAT  HAD  NO  TURNING  87 


There  was  a  knocking  at  the  door,  and  a  voice  calling 
— a  peremptory  voice. 

"  There  is  only  one  way!  "  he  said.  "  They  shall  not 
take  me.  I  will  not  he  dragged  to  gaol  for  crowds  to 
jeer  at.  I  will  not  be  dragged  to  the  scaffold  to  your 
shame." 

He  ran  to  the  door  of  the  bathroom  and  flung  it 
open.     "  If  my  life  is  to  pay  the  price,  then " 

She  came  blindly  towards  him,  stretching  out  her 
hands. 

"  Louis  1  Louis!  "  was  all  that  she  could  say. 

He  caught  her  hands  and  kissed  them,  then  stepped 
swiftly  back  into  the  little  bathroom,  and  locked  the 
door,  as  the  door  of  the  room  she  was  in  burst  open, 
and  two  constables  and  a  half  dozen  men  crowded  into 
the  room. 

She  stood  with  her  back  to  the  bathroom  door, 
panting,  and  white,  and  anguished,  and  her  ears 
strained  to  the  terrible  thing  inside  the  place  behind 
her. 

The  men  understood,  and  came  towards  her. 
**  Stanu  back!  "  she  said.  "  You  shall  not  have  him. 
You  shall  not  have  him.  Ah,  don't  you  hear!  He  is 
dying!  Oh,  God!  oh,  God!"  she  cried,  with  tearless 
eyes  and  upturned  face.  "  Ah,  let  it  be  soon!  Ah,  let 
him  die  soon !  " 

The  men  stood  abashed  before  her  agony.  Behind 
the  little  door  where  she  stood  there  was  a  muffled 
groaning.  She  trembled,  but  her  arms  were  spread 
out  before  the  door  as  though  on  a  cross,  and  her  lips 
kept  murmuring:  "  Oh,  God,  let  him  die!  Let  him 
die!     Oh,  spare  him  agony!  " 

Suddenly  she  stood  still  and  listened — listened  with 
staring  eyes  that  saw  nothing.      In  the  room  men 


88    THE  LANE  THAT  HAD  NO  TURNING 

shrank  back,  for  they  knew  that  death  was  behind  the 
little  door,  and  that  they  were  in  the  presence  of  a  sor- 
row greater  than  death. 

Suddenly  she  turned  upon  them  with  a  gesture  of 
piteous  triumph,  and  said: 

"  You  cannot  have  him  now." 

Then  she  swayed  and  fell  forward  to  the  floor  as  the 
Abbe  aid  George  Fournel  entered  the  room.  The 
Abbe  hastened  to  her  side  and  lifted  up  her  head. 

George  Fournel  pushed  the  men  back  who  would 
have  entered  the  bathroom,  and  himself,  bursting  the 
door  open,  entered.  Louis  lay  dead  upon  the  floor. 
He  turned  to  the  constables. 

"  As  she  said,  you  cannot  have  him  now.  You  have 
no  right  here.  Go.  I  had  a  warning  from  the  man 
he  killed.  I  knew  there  would  be  trouble.  But  I  have 
come  too  late!  "  he  added  bitterly. 


An  hour  later  the  house  was  as  still  as  the  grave. 
Madame  Marie  sat  with  the  doctor  beside  the  bed  of 
her  dear  mistress,  and  in  another  room  George  Four- 
nel, with  the  Avocat,  kept  watch  beside  the  body  of  the 
Seigneur  of  Pontiac.  The  face  of  the  dead  man  was 
as  peaceful  as  that  of  a  little  child. 

At  ninety  years  of  age,  the  present  Seigneur  of  Pon- 
tiac, one  Baron  Fournel,  lives  in  the  Manor  House  left 
him  by  Madelinette  Lajeunesse  the  great  singer,  when 
she  died,  a  quarter  of  a  century  ago.  For  thirty  years 
he  followed  her  from  capital  to  capital  of  Europe  and 
America  to  hear  her  sing,  and  to  this  day  he  talks  of 
her  in  language  more  French  than  English  in  its  ar- 
dour. Perhaps  that  is  because  his  heart  beats  in  sym- 
pathy with  the  Frenchmen  he  once  disdained. 


THE  ABSURD  ROMANCE  OF 
FTITE  LOUISON 


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THE   ABSURD   ROMANCE   OF   P'TITE 

LOUISON 


THE  five  brothers  lived  with  Louison,  three  miles 
from  Pontiac,  and  Medallion  came  to  know 
them  first  through  having  sold  them,  at  an  auction, 
a  slice  of  an  adjoining  farm.  He  had  been  invited 
to  their  home,  intimacy  had  grown,  and  afterwaids, 
stricken  with  a  severe  illness,  he  had  been  taken  into 
the  household  and  kept  there  till  he  was  well  again. 
The  night  of  his  arrival,  Louison,  the  sister,  stood  with 
a  brother  on  either  hand — Octave  and  Florian — and 
received  him  with  a  courtesy  more  stately  than  usual, 
an  expression  of  the  reserve  and  modesty  of  her  single 
state.  This  maidenly  dignity  was  at  all  times  shielded 
by  the  five  brothers,  who  treated  her  with  a  constant 
and  reverential  courtesy.  There  was  something  sig- 
nally suggestive  in  their  homage,  and  Medallion  con- 
cluded at  last  that  it  was  paid  not  only  to  the  sister  but 
to  something  that  gave  her  great  importance  in  their 
eyes. 

He  puzzled  long,  and  finally  decided  that  Louison 
had  a  romance.  There  was  something  which  sug- 
gested it  in  the  way  they  said  "  P'tite  Louison  " ;  in  the 
manner  they  avoided  all  gossip  regarding  marriages 
and  marriage-feasting ;  in  the  way  they  deferred  to  her 
on  a  question  of  etiquette  (as,  for  instance,  Should  the 
eldest  child  be  given  the  family  name  of  the  wife  or  a 
Christian  name  from  her  husband's  family?).    And 


92  THE  LANE  THAT  HAD  NO  TURNING.  ^ 

P'tite  Louison's  opinion  was  accented  instantly  as  final, 
with  satisfied  nods  on  the  part  of  all  the  brothers,  and 
with  whispers  of  "  How  clever !  how  adorable  1  such 
beauty ! " 

P'tite  Louison  affected  never  to  hear  these  remarks, 
but  looked  complacently  straight  before  her,  stirring 
the  spoon  in  her  cup,  or  benignly  passing  the  bread  and 
butter.  She  was  quite  aware  of  the  homage  paid  to 
her,  and  she  gracefully  accepted  the  fact  that  she  was 
an  object  of  interest. 

Medallion  had  not  the  heart  to  laugh  at  the  adoration 
of  the  brothers,  nor  at  the  outlandish  sister,  for,  though 
she  was  angular  and  sallow  and  thin,  and  her  hands 
were  large  and  red,  there  was  a  something  deep  in  her 
eyes,  a  curious  quality  in  her  carriage,  commanding 
respect.  She  had  ruled  these  brothers,  had  been  wor- 
shipped by  them,  for  near  half  a  century,  and  the 
romance  they  had  kept  alive  had  produced  a  gro- 
tesque sort  of  truth  and  beauty  in  the  admiring  "  P'tite 
Louison  " — an  affectionate  name  for  her  greatness,  like 
"  The  Little  Corporal "  for  Napoleon.  She  was  not 
little,  either,  but  above  the  middle  height,  and  her  hair 
was  well  streaked  with  gray. 

Her  manner  toward  Medallion  was  not  marked  by 
any  affectation.  She  was  friendly  in  a  kind,  imper- 
sonal way,  much  as  a  nurse  cares  for  a  patient,  and  she 
never  relaxed  a  sort  of  old-fashioned  courtesy,  which 
might  have  been  trying  in  such  close  quarters,  were  it 
not  for  the  real  simplicity  of  the  life  and  the  spirit  and 
lightness  of  their  race.  One  night  Florian — there  were 
Florian  and  Octave  and  Felix  and  Isidore  and  Emile — 
the  eldest,  drew  Medallion  aside  from  the  others,  and 
they  walked  together  by  the  river.  Florian's  air  sug- 
gested confidence  and  mystery,  and  soon,  with  a  voice 


THE   ROMANCE   OF    PTITE   LOUISON    93 

of  hushed  suggestion,  he  told  Medallion  the  romance  of 
P'titc  Louison.  And  each  of  the  brothers  at  different 
times  during  the  next  fortnight  did  the  same,  differ- 
ing scarcely  at  all  in  details  or  choice  of  phrase  or 
meaning,  and  not  at  all  in  general  facts  and  essentials. 
But  each,  as  he  ended,  made  a  different  exclamation. 

"  Voilh!  so  sad,  so  wonderful !  She  keeps  the  ring — 
dear  P'tite  Louison!  "  said  Florian,  the  eldest. 

"  Alors!  she  gives  him  a  legacy  in  her  will!  Sweet 
P'tite  Louison,"  said  Octave. 

"  Mais!  the  governor  and  the  archbishop  admire 
her — P'tite  Louison !  "  said  Felix,  nodding  confidently 
at  Medallion. 

"  Bien!  you  should  see  the  linen  and  the  petticoats!  ** 
said  Isidore,  the  humorous  one  of  the  family.  "  He 
was  great — she  was  an  angel — P'tite  Louison!  " 

"Attends!  what  love!  what  history!  what  passion! — 
the  perfect  P'tite  Louison!  "  cried  Emile,  the  youngest, 
the  most  sentimental.  "Ah,  Moliere!"  he  added,  as 
if  calling  on  the  master  to  rise  and  sing  the  glories  of 
this  daughter  of  romance. 

Isidore's  tale  was  after  this  fashion : 

"  I  ver'  well  remember  the  first  of  it;  and  the  last  of 
it — who  can  tell?  He  was  an  actor — oh,  so  droll,  that! 
Tall,  ver'  smart,  and  he  play  in  theatre  at  Montreal.  It 
is  in  the  winter.  P'tite  Louison  visit  Montreal.  She 
walk  past  the  theatre  and,  as  she  go  by,  she  slip  on  the 
snow  and  fall.  Out  from  a  door  with  a  jomp  come 
M'sieu*  Hadrian,  and  pick  her  up.  And  when  he  see 
the  purty  face  of  P'tite  Louison,  his  eyes  go  all  afire 
and  he  clasp  her  hand  to  his  breast. 

"  *  Mademoiselle!  Mademoiselle!  *  he  say, '  we  must 
meet  again! ' 

"  She  thank  him,  and  hurry  away  quick.     Next  day 


94  THE  LANE  THAT  HAD  NO  TURNING 


'  H,  -it 


U  '1 


■■*.; 


we  are  on  the  river  and  P'tite  Louison  try  to  do  the 
Dance  of  the  Blue  Fox  on  the  ice.  While  she  do  it, 
some  one  come  up  swift  and  catch  her  hand,  and  say, 
*  Ma'm'selle,  let's  do  it  together  '—like  that !  It  take 
her  breath  away.  It  is  M'sieu'  Hadrian.  He  not  seem 
like  the  other  men  she  know,  but  he  have  a  sharp  look, 
he  is  smooth  in  the  face,  and  he  smile  kind  like  a 
woman.  P'tite  Louison,  she  give  him  her  hand,  and 
they  run  away,  and  every  one  stop  to  look.  It  is  a 
gran'  sight!  M'sieu'  Hadrian  laugh  and  his  teeth 
shine,  and  the  ladies  say  things  of  him,  and  he  tell 
P'tite  Louison  that  she  look  ver'  fine  and  walk  like  a 
queen.  I  am  there  that  day,  and  I  see  all  and  I  th'nk 
it  dam  good.  I  say :  *  That  P'tite  Louison,  she  beut 
them  all  * — I  am  only  twelve  year  old  then.  When 
M'sieu'  Hadrian  leave  he  give  her  two  seats  for  the 
theatre,  and  we  go.  Bagosh !  that  is  grand  thing,  that 
play,  and  M'sieu'  Hadrian,  he  is  a  prince;  and  when 
he  say  to  his  minister,  *  But,  no,  my  lord,  I  will  rnarry 
out  of  my  star,  and  where  my  heart  go,  not  as  the 
State  wills,'  he  look  down  at  P'tite  Louison,  and  she 
go  all  red,  and  some  of  the  women  look  at  her,  and 
there  is  a  whisper  all  roun'. 

"  Nex'  day  he  come  to  the  house  where  we  stay,  but 
the  Cure  come  also  pretty  soon  and  tell  her  she  must 
go  home — he  say  an  actor  is  not  good  company. 
Never  mind.  And  so  we  come  out  home.  Well,  what 
you  think?  Nex'  day  M'sieu'  Hadrian  come,  too, 
and  we  have  dam  good  time — Florian,  Octave,  Felix, 
Emile,  they  all  sit  and  say  bully  good  to  him  all  the 
time.  Holy,  what  fine  stories  he  tell!  And  he  talk 
about  P'tite  Louison,  and  his  eyes  get  wet,  and  Emile 
he  say  his  prayers  to  him — bagosh!  yes,  I  think.  Well, 
at  last,  what  you  guess?    M'sieu'  he  come  and  come. 


THE   ROMANCE   OF   PTITE   LOUISON    95 


and  at  last  one  day,  he  say  that  he  leave  Montreal  and 
go  to  New  York,  where  he  get  a  good  place  in  a  big 
theatre — his  time  in  Montreal  is  finish.  So  he  speak 
to  Florian  and  say  he  want  to  marry  P'tite  Louison, 
and  he  say,  of  course,  that  he  is  not  marry  and  he  have 
money.  But  he  is  a  Protestan',  and  the  Cure  at  first 
ver'  mad,  bagosh ! 

"  But  at  last  when  he  give  a  hunder'  dollars  to  the 
Church,  the  Cure  say  yes.  All  happy  that  way  for 
while.  P'tite  Louison,  she  get  ready  quick — saprt 
what  fine  things  had  she!  and  it  is  all  to  be  done  in  a 
week,  while  the  theatre  in  New  York  wait  for  M'sieu'. 
He  sit  there  with  us,  and  play  on  the  fiddle,  and  sing 
songs,  and  act  plays,  and  help  Florian  in  the  barn,  and 
Octave  to  mend  the  fence,  and  the  Cure  to  fix  the 
grapevines  on  his  wall.  He  show  me  and  Emile  how 
to  play  sword-sticks;  and  he  pick  flowers  and  fetch 
them  to  P'tite  Louison,  and  teach  her  how  to  make  an 
omelette  and  a  salad  like  the  chef  of  the  Louis  Quinze 
Hotel,  so  he  say.  Bagosh,  what  a  good  time  we  have! 
But  first  one,  then  another,  he  get  a  choke-throat  when 
he  think  that  P'tite  Louison  go  to  leave  us,  and  the 
more  we  try,  the  more  we  are  bagosh  fools.  And 
that  P'tite  Louison,  she  kiss  us  hevery  one,  and  say  to 
M'sieu*  Hadrian,  *  Charles,  I  love  you,  but  I  cannot 
go! '  He  laugh  at  her,  and  say:  ^Voilh!  we  will  take 
them  all  with  us,'  and  P'tite  Louison  she  laugh.  That 
night  a  thing  happen.  The  Cure  come,  and  he  look 
ver'  mad,  and  he  frown  and  he  say  to  M'sieu'  Hadrian 
before  us  all,  *  M'sieu',  you  are  married ! ' 

"  Sapr^.f  that  P'tite  Louison  get  pale  like  snow,  and 
we  all  Stan'  roun'  her  close  and  say  to  her  quick, 
'Courage,  P'tite  Louison!'  M'sieu'  Hadrian  then 
look  at  the  priest  and  say:  *  No,  M'sieu',  I  was  married 


1-:'^ 

^:,;i;;'' 


96  THE  LANE  THAT  HAD  NO  TURNING 

ten  years  ago;  my  wife  drink  and  go  wrong,  and  I  get 
divorce.     I  am  free  like  the  wind.' 

"  *  You  are  not  free/  the  Cure  say  quick.  *  Once 
married,  married  till  death.  The  Church  cannot 
marry  you  again,  and  I  command  Louison  to  give  you 
up.* 

"  P'tite  Louison  stand  like  stone.  M'sieu'  turn  to 
her.  'What  shall  it  be,  Louison?'  he  say.  *  You 
will  come  with  me? ' 

"  *  Kiss  me,  Charles,'  she  say,  *  and  tell  me  good-by 
till — till  you  are  free.' 

"  He  look  like  a  madman.  *  Kiss  me  once,  Charles,' 
she  say,  *  and  let  me  go.* 

"  And  he  come  to  her  and  kiss  her  on  the  lips  once, 
and  he  say:  '  Louison,  come  with  me.  I  will  never 
give  you  up.' 

"  She  draw  back  to  Florian.  '  Good-by,  Charles  I ' 
she  say.  *  I  will  wait  as  long  as  you  will.  Mother  of 
God!  how  hard  it  is  to  do  right! '  she  say,  and  then  she 
turn  and  leave  the  room. 

"  M'sieu'  Hadrian,  he  give  a  long  sigh.  *  It  was  my 
one  chance,'  he  say.  *  Now  the  devil  take  it  all !  * 
Then  he  nod  and  say  to  the  Cure :  *  We'll  thrash  this 
out  at  Judgment  Day,  M'sieu'.  I'll  meet  you  there — 
you  and  that  other  woman  that  spoiled  me.* 

"  He  turn  to  Floria**  and  the  rest  of  us,  and  shake 
hands,  and  say:  '  Take  care  of  Louison.  Thank  you. 
Good-by ! '  Then  he  start  toward  the  door,  but 
stumble,  for  he  look  sick.  *  Give  me  a  drink,'  he  say, 
and  begin  to  cough  a  little — a  queer  sort  of  rattle. 
Florian  give  him  big  drink,  and  he  toss  it  oflf— whiflf! 
*  Thank  you,'  he  say,  and  start  again,  and  we  see  him 
walk  away  over  the  hill  ver'  slow — an'  he  never  come 
back !    But  every  year  there  come  from  New  York  a 


:      I 


THE   ROMANCE   OF   PTITE   LOUISON    97 

box  of  flowers,  and  every  year  P'tite  Louison  send 
him  a,  * Merct,  Charles^  mille  fois.  Dieu  te garde.'  It 
is  so  every  year  for  twenty-five  year." 

"  Where  is  he  now?  "  asked  Medallion. 

Isidore  shook  his  head,  then  lifted  his  eyes  relig- 
iously. "  Waiting  for  Judgment  Day  and  P'tite 
Louison,"  he  answered. 

"  Dead!  "  cried  Medallion.    "  How  long?  " 

"  Twenty  year." 

"  But  the  flowers — the  flowers?  " 

"  He  left  word  for  them  to  be  sent  just  the  same,  and 
the  money  for  it." 

Medallion  turned  and  took  off  his  hat  reverently  as 
if  a  soul  were  passing  from  the  world,  but  it  was  only 
P'tite  Louison  going  out  into  the  garden. 

"  She  thinks  him  living? "  he  asked  gently  as  he 
watched  Louison. 

"  Yes ;  we  have  no  heart  to  tell  her.  And  then  he 
wish  it  so.     And  the  flowers  kep'  coming." 

"Why  did  he  wish  it  so?" 

Isidore  mused  a  while. 

"Who  can  tell?  Perhaps  a  whim.  He  was  a  great 
actor — ah,  yes,  sublime!  "  he  said. 

Medallion  did  not  reply,  but  walked  slowly  down  to 
where  P'tite  Louison  was  picking  berries.  His  hat 
was  still  off. 

"  Let  me  help  you,  Mademoiselle,"  he  said  softly. 
And  henceforth  he  was  as  foolish  as  her  brothers. 

7 


TI- 


THE  LITTLE  BELL  OF  HONOUR 


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THE   LITTLE  BELL  OF  HONOUR 


"   QiACRi  bapt 
O         "  What 


What   did 


he  say?"  asked  the  Little 
Chemist,  stepping  from  his  doorway. 

"  He  cursed  his  baptism,"  answered  tall  Medallion, 
the  English  auctioneer,  pushing  his  way  farther  into 
the  crowd. 

"  Ah,  the  pitiful  vattrien!  "  said  the  Little  Chemist's 
wife,  shudderingly ;  for  that  was  an  oath  not  to  be  en- 
dured by  any  one  who  called  the  Church  mother. 

The  crowd  that  had  gathered  at  the  Four  Corners 
were  greatly  disturbed,  for  they  also  felt  the  repulsion 
that  possessed  the  Little  Chemist's  wife.  They  bab- 
bled, shook  their  heads,  and  waved  their  hands  excit- 
edly, and  swayed  and  craned  their  necks  to  see  the 
offender. 

All  at  once  his  voice,  mad  with  rage,  was  heard 
above  the  rest,  shouting  frenziedly  a  curse  which  was 
a  horribly  grotesque  blasphemy  upon  the  name  of  God. 
Men  who  had  used  that  oath  in  their  insane  anger  had 
been  known  to  commit  suicide  out  of  remorse  after- 
ward. 

For  a  moment  there  was  a  painful  hush.  The  crowd 
drew  back  involuntarily  and  left  a  clear  space,  in  which 
stood  the  blasphemer,  a  middle-sized,  athletic  fellow, 
with  black  beard,  thick,  waving  hair,  and  flashing 
brown  eyes.  His  white  teeth  were  showing  now  in  a 
snarl  like  a  dog's,  his  cap  was  on  the  ground,  his  hair 


Vi 


I02   THE  LANE  THAT  HAD  NO  TURNING 

was  tumbled,  his  hands  were  twitching  with  passion, 
his  foot  was  stamping  with  fury,  and  every  time  it 
struck  the  ground  a  Httle  silver  bell  rang  at  his  knee, 
a  pretty  sylvan  sound,  in  no  keeping  with  the  scene. 
It  heightened  the  distress  of  the  fellow's  blasphemy  and 
ungovernable  anger.  For  a  man  to  curse  his  baptism 
was  a  wicked  thing ;  but  the  other  oath  was  not  fit  for 
human  ears,  and  horror  held  the  crowd  moveless  for  a 
moment. 

Then,  as  suddenly  as  the  stillness  came,  a  low, 
threatening  mumble  of  voices  rose,  and  a  movement 
to  close  in  on  the  man  was  made ;  but  a  figure  pushed 
through  the  crowd,  and,  standing  in  front  of  the  man, 
waved  the  people  back.  It  was  the  Cure,  the  beloved 
M.  Fabre,  whose  life  had  been  spent  among  them, 
whom  they  obeyed  as  well  as  they  could,  for  they  were 
but  frail  humanity,  after  all — crude,  simple  folk, 
touched  with  imagination. 

*'  Luc  Pomfrettc,  why  have  you  done  this?  What 
provocation  had  you  ?  " 

The  Cure's  voice  was  stern  and  cold,  his  usually 
gentle  face  had  become  severe,  his  soft  eyes  were  pierc- 
ing and  determined. 

The  foot  of  the  man  still  beat  the  ground  angrily, 
and  the  little  bell  kept  tinkling.  He  was  gasping  with 
passion,  and  he  did  not  answer  yet. 

"  Luc  Pomfrette,  what  have  you  to  say  ?  "  asked  the 
Cure  again.  He  motioned  back  Lacasse,  the  con- 
stable of  the  parish,  who  had  suddenly  appeared  with 
a  rusty  rifle  and  a  more  rusty  pair  of  handcuffs. 

Still  the  voyageur  did  not  answer. 

The  Cure  glanced  at  Lajeunesse  the  blacksmith,  who 
stood  near. 

"There  was  no  cause — no,"  said  Lajeunesse,  sagely 


THE   LITTLE   BELL   OF   HONOUR    103 

shaking  his  head.  "  j  lere  stand  we  at  the  door  of  the 
Louis  Quinze  in  very  good  humour.  Up  come  the 
voyageurs,  all  laughing,  and  ahead  of  them  is  Luc 
Pomfrette,  with  the  little  bell  at  his  knee.  Luc,  he 
laugh  the  same  as  the  rest,  and  they  stand  in  the  door, 
and  the £!'arf on  bring  out  the  brandy — just  a  little,  but 
just  enough  too.  I  am  talking  to  Henri  Bcauvin.  I 
am  telling  him  Junie  Gauloir  .lave  run  away  with 
Dicey  the  Protestant,  when  all  very  quick  Luc  push 
between  me  and  Henri,  jump  into  the  street,  and  speak 
like  that  I" 

Lajeunesse  looked  around,  as  if  for  corroboration; 
Henri  and  others  nodded,  and  some  one  said : 

"  That's  true ;  that's  true.     There  was  no  cause." 

"  Maybe  it  was  the  drink,"  said  a  little  hunchbacked 
man,  pushing  his  way  in  beside  the  Cure.  "  It  must 
have  been  the  drink ;  there  was  nothing  else — no." 

The  speaker  was  Parpon  the  dwarf,  the  oddest,  in 
some  ways  the  most  foolish,  in  others  the  wisest  man 
in  Pontiac. 

"  That  is  no  excuse,"  said  the  Cure. 

"  It  is  the  only  one  he  has,  eh  ?  "  answered  Parpon. 
His  eyes  were  fixed  meaningly  on  those  of  Pom- 
frette. 

"  It  is  no  excuse,"  repeated  the  Cure,  sternly.  "  The 
blasphemy  is  horrible,  a  shame  and  stigma  upon  Pon- 
tiac forever."  He  looked  Pomfrette  in  the  face. 
"  Foul-mouthed  and  wicked  man,  it  is  two  years  since 
you  took  the  Blessed  Sacrament.  Last  Easter  Day  you 
were  in  a  drunken  sleep  while  high  mass  was  being 
said;  after  the  funeral  of  your  own  father  you  were 
drunk  again.  When  you  went  away  to  the  woods 
you  never  left  a  penny  for  candles,  nor  for  masses  to  be 
said  for  your  father's  soul ;  yet  you  sold  his  horse  and 


I04    THE  LANE  THAT  HAD  NO  TURNING 


his  little  house,  and  spent  the  money  in  drink.  Not  a 
cent  for  a  candle,  but " 

"  It's  a  lie !  "  cried  Ponifrette,  shaking  with  rage 
from  head  to  foot. 

A  long  horror-stricken  "  Ah  I  "  broke  from  the 
crowd. 

The  Cure's  face  became  graver  and  colder. 

"  You  have  a  bad  heart,"  he  answered,  "  and  you 
give  Pontiac  an  evil  name.  I  command  you  to  come 
to  mass  next  Sunday,  to  repent  and  to  hear  your  pen- 
ance given  from  the  altar.     For  until " 

"  I'll  go  to  no  mass  till  I'm  carried  to  it,"  was  the 
sullen,  malevolent  interruption. 

The  Cure  turned  upon  the  people. 

"  This  is  a  blasphemer,  an  evil-hearted,  shameless 
man,"  he  said.  "  Until  he  repents  humbly,  and  bows 
his  vicious  spirit  to  holy  Church,  and  his  heart  to  the 
mercy  of  God,  I  command  you  to  avoid  him  as  you 
would  a  plague.  I  command  that  no  door  be  opened 
to  him ;  that  no  one  offer  him  comfort  or  friendship ; 
that  not  even  a  toujour  or  a  bonsoir  pass  between 
you.  He  has  blasphemed  against  our  Father  in 
heaven;  to  the  Church  he  is  a  leper."  He  turned  to 
Pomfrette.  "  I  pray  God  that  you  have  no  peace  in 
mind  or  body  till  your  evil  life  is  changed,  and  your 
black  heart  is  broken  by  sorrow  and  repentance." 

Then  to  the  people  he  said  again :  "  I  have  com- 
manded you  for  your  souls'  sake ;  see  that  you  obey. 
Go  to  your  homes.  Let  us  leave  the  leper — alone." 
He  waved  the  awed  crowd  back. 

"  Shall  we  take  off  the  little  bell  ?  "  asked  Lajeunesse 
of  the  Cure. 

Pomfrette  heard,  and  he  drew  himself  together,  his 
jaws  shutting  with  ferocity,  and  his  hand  flying  to  the 


THE    LITTLF:    bell   OF   HONOUR    105 

belt  where  his  voyageur's  case-knife  hung.  The  Cure 
(lid  not  sec  this.  Without  turning  his  head  toward 
Tomfrctte,  he  said : 

*'  I  have  commanded  you,  my  children.  Leave  the 
leper  alone." 

Again  he  waved  the  crowd  to  be  gone,  and  they  scat- 
tered, whispering  to  each  other ;  for  nothing  like  this 
had  ever  occurred  in  Pontiac  before,  nor  had  they  ever 
seen  the  Cure  with  this  granite  look  in  his  face,  nor 
heard  his  voice  so  bitterly  hard. 

He  did  not  move  until  he  had  seen  them  all  started 
homewards  from  the  Four  Corners.  One  person  re- 
mained beside  him — Parpon  the  dwarf. 

"  I  will  not  obey  you,  M'sieu*  le  Cure,"  said  he. 
"  ni  forgive  him  before  he  repents." 

"  You  will  share  his  sin,"  answered  the  Cure,  sternly. 

"  No ;  his  punishment,  m'sieu',"  said  the  dwarf ;  and 
turning  on  his  heel,  he  trotted  to  where  Pomfrette 
stood  alone  in  the  middle  of  the  road,  a  dark,  morose 
figure,  hatred  and  a  wild  trouble  in  his  face. 

Already  banishment,  isolation,  seemed  to  possess 
Pomfrette,  to  surround  him  with  loneliness.  The  very 
effort  he  made  to  be  defiant  of  his  fate  appeared  to 
make  him  still  more  solitary.  All  at  once  he  thrust  a 
hand  inside  his  red  shirt,  and,  giving  a  jerk  which 
broke  a  string  tied  round  his  neck,  he  drew  forth  a  little 
pad,  a  flat  bag  of  silk,  called  an  Agnus  Dei,  worn  as  a 
protection  and  a  blessing  by  the  pious,  and  threw  it  on 
the  ground.  Another  little  parcel  he  drew  from  his 
belt,  and  ground  it  into  the  dirt  with  his  heel.  It 
contained  a  woman's  hair.  Then,  muttering,  his  hands 
still  twitching  with  savage  feeling,  he  picked  up  his 
cap,  covered  with  dirt,  put  it  on,  and  passed  away  down 
the  road  toward  the  river,  the  little  bell  tinkling  as  he 


1  t 


io6    THE  LANE  THAT  HAD  NO  TURNING 


1 1 


went.  Those  who  heard  it  had  a  strange  feeUng,  for 
already  to  them  the  man  v/as  as  if  he  had  some  baleful 
disease,  and  this  little  bell  told  of  the  passing  of  a  leper. 

Yet  some  one  man  had  worn  just  such  a  bell  every 
year  in  Pontiac.  It  was  the  mark  of  honour  conferred 
upon  a  voyageur  by  his  fellows,  the  token  of  his 
prowess  and  his  skill.  This  year  Luc  Pomfrette  had 
won  it,  and  that  very  day  it  had  been  buckled  round 
his  leg  with  songs  and  toasts. 

For  hours  Pomfrette  walked  incessantly  up  and 
down  the  river-bank,  muttering  and  gesticulating,  but 
at  last  came  quietly  to  the  cottage  which  he  shared 
with  Henri  Beauvin.  Henri  had  removed  himself  and 
his  belongings :  already  the  ostracizing  had  begun.  He 
went  to  the  bedroom  of  old  Mme.  Burgoyne,  his  cou- 
sin ;  she  also  was  gone.  He  went  to  a  little  outhouse 
and  called. 

For  reply  there  was  a  scratching  at  the  door.  He 
opened  it,  and  a  dog  leaped  out  and  upon  him.  With 
a  fierce  fondness  he  snatched  at  the  dog's  collar,  and 
drew  the  shaggy  head  to  his  knee;  then  as  suddenly 
shoved  him  away  with  a  smothered  oath,  and  going 
into  the  house,  shut  the  door.  He  sat  down  in  a  chair 
in  the  middle  of  the  room,  and  scarcely  stirred  for  half 
an  hour.  At  last,  with  a  passionate  jerk  of  the  head, 
he  got  to  his  feet,  looking  about  the  room  in  a  half- 
distracted  way.  Outside,  the  dog  kept  running  round 
and  round  the  house,  silent,  watchful,  waiting  for  the 
door  to  open. 

As  time  went  by,  Luc  became  quieter,  but  the  look 
of  his  face  was  more  desolate.  At  last  he  almost  ran 
to  the  door,  threw  it  open,  and  called.  The  dog  sprang 
into  the  room,  went  straight  to  the  fireplace,  lay 
down,  and  with  tongue  lolling  and  body  panting 


THE   LITTLE   BELL   OF   HONOUR    107 

looked  at  Pomfrette  with  blinking,  uncomprehending 
eyes. 

Pomfrette  went  to  a  cupboard,  brought  back  a  bone 
well  covered  with  meat,  and  gave  it  to  the  dog,  which 
snatched  it  and  began  gnawing  it,  now  and  again  stop- 
ping to  look  up  at  his  master,  as  one  might  look  at  a 
mountain  moving,  be  aware  of  something  singular,  yet 
not  grasp  the  significance  of  the  phenomenon.  At  last, 
worn  out,  Pomfrette  threw  himself  on  his  bed,  and  fell 
into  a  sound  sleep.  When  he  awoke  it  was  far  into  the 
morning.  He  lighted  a  fire  in  the  kitchen,  got  a 
"  spider,"  fried  himself  a  piece  of  pork,  and  made  some 
tea.  There  was  no  milk  in  the  cupboard,  so  he  took 
a  pitcher  and  walked  down  the  road  a  few  rods  to  the 
next  house,  where  lived  the  village  milkman.  He 
knocked,  and  the  door  was  opened  by  the  milkman's 
wife.  A  frightened  look  came  upon  her  when  she  saw 
who  it  was. 

"  Non,  non,"  she  said,  and  shut  the  door  in  his  face. 

He  stared  blankly  at  the  door  for  a  moment,  then 
turned  round  and  stood  looking  down  into  the  road, 
with  the  pitcher  in  his  hand.  The  milkman's  little 
boy,  Maxime,  came  running  round  the  corner  of  the 
house. 

"  Maxime! "  he  said  involuntarily  and  half  eagerly, 
for  he  and  the  lad  had  been  great  friends. 

Maxime's  face  brightened,  then  became  clouded ;  he 
stood  still  an  instant,  and  presently,  turning  round  and 
looking  at  Pomfrette  askance,  ran  away  behind  the 
house,  saying,  "  Non,  non! " 

Pomfrette  drew  his  rough  knuckles  across  his  fore- 
head in  a  dazed  way;  then,  as  the  significance  of  the 
thing  came  home  to  him,  he  broke  out  with  a  fierce 
oath,  and  strode  away  down  the  yard  and  i^  .0  the  road. 


I  ^ 


I08   THE  LANE  THAT  HAD  NO  TURNING 

On  the  way  to  his  house  he  met  Duclosse  the  mealman 
and  Garotte  the  Hme-bumer.  He  wondered  what  they 
would  do.  He  could  see  the  fat,  wheezy  Duclosse  hesi- 
tate, but  the  arid,  alert  Garotte  had  determination  in 
every  motion  and  look.  They  came  nearer ;  they  were 
about  to  pass ;  there  was  no  sign. 

Pomfrette  stopped  short.  "  Good  day,  lime-burner ; 
good  day,  Duclosse,"  he  said,  looking  straight  at  them. 

Garotte  made  no  reply,  but  walked  straight  on. 
Pomfrette  stepped  swiftly  in  front  of  the  mealman. 
There  was  fury  in  his  face — fury  and  danger ;  his  hair 
was  disordered,  his  eyes  afire. 

"  Good-day,  mealman,"  he  said,  and  waited. 

"  Duclosse,"  called  Garotte,  warningly,  "  remem- 
ber !  " 

Duclosse's  knees  shook,  and  his  face  became  mottled 
like  a  piece  of  soap ;  he  pushed  his  fingers  into  his  shirt 
and  touched  the  Agnus  Dei  that  he  carried  there.  That 
and  Garotte's  words  gave  him  courage.  He  scarcely 
knew  what  he  said,  but  it  had  meaning. 

"  Good-by — leper,"  he  answered. 

Pomfrette's  arm  flew  out  to  throw  the  pitcher  at  the 
mealman's  head,  but  Duclosse,  with  a  grunt  of  terror, 
flung  up  in  front  of  his  face  the  small  bag  of  meal  that 
he  carried,  the  contents  pouring  over  his  waistcoat 
from  a  loose  corner.  The  picture  was  so  ludicrous  that 
Pomfrette  laughed  with  a  devilish  humour,  and  flinging 
the  pitcher  at  the  bag,  he  walked  away  toward  his  own 
house.  Duclosse,  pale  and  frightened,  stepped  from 
among  the  fragments  of  crockery,  and  with  backward 
glances  toward  Pomfrette  joined  his  comrade. 

"  Lime-burner,"  he  said,  sitting  down  on  the  bag  of 
meal,  and  mechanically  twisting  tight  the  loose,  leak- 
ing corner,  "  the  devil's  in  that  leper." 


THE   LITTLE   BELL   OF   HONOUR    109 

"  He  was  a  good  enough  fellow  once,"  answered 
Garotte,  watching  Pomfrette. 

"  I  drank  with  him  at  five  o'clock  yesterday,"  said 
Duclosse,  philosophically.  "  He  was  fit  for  any  com- 
pany then ;  now  he's  fit  for  none." 

Garotte  looked  wise.  "  Mealman,"  said  he,  "  it 
takes  years  to  make  folks  love  you ;  you  can  make 
them  hate  you  in  an  hour.  La!  La!  it's  easier  to  hate 
than  to  love.     Come  along,  M'sieu'  dusty-belly." 

Pomfrette's  life  in  Pontiac  went  on  as  it  began  that 
day.  Not  once  a  day,  and  sometimes  not  once  in 
twenty  days,  did  any  human  being  speak  to  him.  The 
village  baker  would  not  sell  him  bread ;  his  groceries 
he  had  to  buy  from  the  neighbouring  parishes,  for  the 
grocer's  flighty  wife  called  for  the  constable  when  he 
entered  the  bake-shop  of  Pontiac.  He  had  to  bake 
his  own  bread,  and  do  his  own  cooking,  washing, 
cleaning,  and  gardening.  Plis  hair  grew  long  and  his 
clothes  became  shabbier.  At  last,  when  he  needed  a 
new  suit, — so  torn  had  his  others  become  at  wood- 
chopping  and  many  kinds  of  work — he  went  to  the 
village  tailor,  and  was  promptly  told  that  nothing  but 
Luc  Pomfrette's  grave-clothes  would  be  cut  and  made 
in  that  house. 

When  he  walked  down  to  the  Four  Corners  the 
street  emptied  at  once,  and  the  lonely  man  with  the 
tinkling  bell  of  honour  at  his  knee  felt  the  whole  world 
falling  away  from  sight  and  touch  and  sound  of  him. 
Once  when  he  went  into  the  Louis  Quinze  every  mar. 
present  stole  away  in  silence,  and  the  landlord  himself, 
without  a  word,  turned  and  left  the  bar.  At  *hat,  with 
a  hoarse  laugh,  Pomfrette  poured  out  a  glass  of  brandy, 
drank  it  off,  and  left  a  shilling  on  the  counter.  The 
next  morning  he  found  the  shilling,  wrapped  in  a  piece 


.   i 


no  THE  LANE  THAT  HAD  NO  TURNING 


of  paper,  just  inside  his  door;  it  had  been  pushed 
underneath.  On  the  paper  was  written,  "  It  is  cursed." 
Presently  his  dog  died,  and  the  day  afterward  he  sud- 
denly disappeared  from  Pontiac,  and  wandered  on  to 
Ste.  Gabrielle,  Ribeaux,  and  Ville  Bambord.  But  his 
shame  had  gone  before  him,  and  people  shunned  him 
everywhere,  even  the  roughest.  No  one  who  knew 
him  would  shelter  him.  He  slept  in  barns  and  in  the 
woods  until  the  winter  came  and  snow  lay  thick  upon 
the  ground.  Thin  and  haggard,  and  with  nothing  left 
of  his  old  self  but  his  deep  brown  eyes  and  curling  hair, 
and  his  unhappy  name  and  fame,  he  turned  back  again 
to  Pontiac.  His  spirit  was  sullen  and  hard,  his  heart 
closed  against  repentance.  Had  not  the  Church  and 
Pontiac  and  the  world  punished  him  beyond  his  deserts 
for  a  moment's  madness  brought  on  by  a  great  shock ! 

II 

One  bright,  sunshiny  day  of  early  winter,  he  trudged 
through  the  snow-banked  street  of  Pontiac  back  to  his 
home.  Men  he  once  knew  well,  and  had  worked  with, 
passed  him  in  a  sled  on  their  way  to  the  great  shanty 
in  the  backwoods.  They  halted  in  their  singing  for  a 
moment  when  they  saw  him ;  then,  turning  their  heads 
from  him,  dashed  oflf,  carolling  lustily : 

"  Ah,  ah,  Babette, 

We  go  away ; 
But  we  will  come 

Again,  Babette,— 
Again  back  home, 

On  Easter  Day, — 
Back  home  to  play 

On  Easter  Day, 
Babette!  Babette!" 


THE   LITTLE   BELL   OF   HONOUR    iii 


"  Babette !  Babette !  "  The  words  followed  him, 
ringing  in  his  ears  long  after  the  men  had  become  a 
mere  fading  point  in  the  white  horizon  behind  him. 
This  was  not  the  same  world  that  he  had  known,  not 
the  same  Pontiac.  Suddenly  he  stopped  short  in  the 
road. 

"  Curse  them !  Curse  them !  Curse  them  all !  "  he 
cried  in  a  cracked,  strange  voice.  A  woman  hurrying 
across  the  street  heard  him,  and  went  the  faster,  shut- 
ting her  ears.  A  little  boy  stood  still  and  looked  at 
him  in  wonder.  Everything  he  saw  maddened  him. 
He  turned  sharp  around  and  hurried  to  the  Louis 
Quinze.  Throwing  open  the  door,  he  stepped  inside. 
Half  a  dozen  men  were  there  with  the  landlord.  When 
they  saw  him,  they  started,  confused  and  dismayed. 
He  stood  still  for  a  moment,  looking  at  them  with 
glowering  brows. 

"  Good  day !  "  he  said.     "  How  are  you  ?  " 

No  one  answered.  A  little  apart  from  the  others  sat 
Medallion  the  auctioneer.  He  was  a  Protestant,  and 
the  curse  on  his  baptism  uttered  by  Pomfrette  was  not 
so  heinous  in  his  sight.  For  the  other  oath,  it  was 
another  matter.  Still,  he  was  sorry  for  the  man.  In 
any  case,  it  was  not  his  cue  to  interfere,  and  Luc  was 
being  punished  according  to  his  bringing  up  and  to  the 
standards  familiar  to  him.  Medallion  had  never  re- 
fused to  speak  to  him,  but  he  had  done  nothing  more. 
There  was  no  reason  why  he  should  provoke  the  en- 
mity of  the  parish  unnecessarily ;  and  up  to  this  point 
Pomfrette  had  shifted  for  himself  after  a  fashion,  if  a 
hard  fashion. 

With  a  bitter  laugh,  Pomfrette  turned  to  the  little 
bar. 

"  Brandy !  "  he  said ;  "  brandy,  my  Bourienne !  " 


112    THE  LANE  THAT  HAD  NO  TURNING 


The  landlord  shrugged  his  shoulder,  and  looked  the 
other  way. 

"  Brandy !  "  he  repeated.     Still  there  was  no  sign. 

There  was  a  wicked  look  in  his  face,  from  which  the 
landlord  shrank  back — shrank  so  far  that  he  carried 
himself  among  the  others,  and  stood  there,  half  fright- 
ened, half  dumfounded. 

Pomfrette  pulled  out  a  greasy  dollar  bill  from  his 
pocket — the  last  he  owned  in  the  world — and  threw  it 
on  the  counter.  Then  he  reached  over,  caught  up  a 
brandy-bottle  from  the  shelf,  knocked  of¥  the  neck  with 
a  knife,  and,  pouring  a  tumblerful,  drank  it  off  at  a 
gasp. 

His  head  came  up,  his  shoulders  straightened  out, his 
eyes  snapped  fire.  He  laughed  aloud,  a  sardonic,  wild, 
coarse  laugh,  and  he  shivered  once  or  twice  violently, 
in  spite  of  the  brandy  he  had  drunk. 

"  You  won't  speak  to  me,  eh  ?  Won't  you  ?  Curse 
you !  Pass  me  on  the  other  side — so !  Look  at  me. 
I  am  the  worst  man  in  the  world,  eh  ?  Judas  is  noth- 
ing— no !  Ack !  What  are  you,  to  turn  your  back  on 
me?  Listen  to  me!  You,  there,  Muroc,  with  your 
charcoal  face,  who  was  it  walk  thirty  miles  in  the  dead 
of  winter  to  bring  a  doctor  to  your  wife,  eh  ?  She  die, 
but  that  is  no  matter.  Who  was  it  ?  It  was  Luc  Pom- 
frette. You,  Alphonse  Durien,  who  was  it  drag  you 
out  of  the  bog  at  the  Cote  Chaudiere?  It  was  Luc 
Pomfrette.  You,  Jacques  Baby,  who  was  it  that  lied 
for  you  to  the  Protestant  girl  at  Faribeau?  Just  Luc 
Pomfrette.  You  two,  Jean  and  Nicolas  Mariban,  who 
was  it  lent  you  a  hundred  dollars  when  you  lost  all 
your  money  at  cards  ?  Ha,  ha,  ha !  Only  that  beast 
Luc  Pomfrette !  Mother  of  heaven !  such  a  beast  is 
he — eh,  Limon  Rouge  ? — such  a  beast  that  used  to  give 


THE   LITTLE   BELL   OF    HONOUR    113 

your  Victorine  little  silver  things,  and  feed  her  with 
bread  and  sugar  and  buttermilk  pop.  Ah,  my  dear 
Limon  Rouge,  how  is  it  all  different  now !  " 

He  raised  the  bottle  and  drank  long  from  the  ragged 
neck.  When  he  took  it  away  from  his  mouth  not 
much  more  than  half  remained  in  the  quart  bottle. 
Blood  was  dripping  upon  his  beard  from  a  cut  on  his 
lip,  and  from  there  to  the  ground. 

"  And  you,  M'sieu'  Bourienne !  "  he  cried  hoarsely. 
"  Do  I  not  remember  that  dear  M'sieu'  Bourienne, 
when  he  beg  me  to  leave  Pontiac  for  a  little  while  that 
I  do  not  give  evidence  in  court  against  him  ?  Eh  bicn! 
you  all  walk  by  me  now,  as  if  I  was  the  father  of  small- 
pox, and  not  Luc  Pomfrette — only  Luc  Pomfrette, 
who  spits  at  every  one  of  you  for  a  pack  of  cowards  and 
hypocrites." 

He  thrust  the  bottle  inside  his  coat,  went  to  the  door, 
flung  it  open  with  a  bang,  and  strode  out  into  the 
street,  muttering  as  he  went.  As  the  landlord  came  to 
close  the  door  Medallion  said : 

"  The  leper  has  a  memory,  my  friends."  Then  he 
also  walked  out,  and  went  to  his  office  depressed,  for 
the  face  of  the  man  haunted  him. 


Pomfrette  reached  his  deserted,  cheerless  house. 
There  was  not  a  stick  of  fire-wood  in  the  shed,  not  a 
thing  to  eat  or  drink  in  cellar  or  cupboard.  The  door 
of  the  shed  at  the  back  was  open,  and  the  dog-chains 
lay  covered  with  frost  and  half  embedded  in  mud. 
With  a  shiver  of  misery  Pomfrette  raised  the  brandy  to 
his  mouth,  drank  every  drop,  and  threw  the  bottle  on 
the  floor.  Then  he  went  to  the  front  door,  opened  it, 
and  stepped  outside.  His  foot  slipped,  and  he  tumbled 
head  forward  into  the  snow.     Once  or  twice  he  half 


114   THE  LANE  THAT  HAD  NO  TURNING 


i  I 


raised  himself,  but  fell  back  again,  and  presently  lay- 
still.  The  frost  caught  his  ears  and  iced  them ;  it  be- 
gan to  creep  over  his  cheeks ;  it  made  his  fingers  white, 
like  a  leper's. 

He  would  soon  have  stiffened  forever  had  not  Par- 
pon  the  dwarf,  passing  along  the  road,  seen  the  open 
door  and  the  sprawling  body,  and  come  and  drawn 
Pomfrette  inside  the  house.  He  rubbed  the  face  and 
hands  and  ears  of  the  unconscious  man  with  snow  till 
the  whiteness  disappeared,  and  taking  off  the  boots, 
did  the  same  with  the  toes;  after  which  he  drew  the 
body  to  a  piece  of  rag  carpet  beside  the  stove,  threw 
some  blankets  over  it,  and,  hurrying  out,  cut  up  some 
fence  rails,  and  soon  had  a  fire  going  in  the  stove. 

Then  he  trotted  out  of  the  house  and  away  to  the 
Little  Chemist,  who  came  passively  with  him.  All  that 
day,  and  for  many  days,  they  fought  to  save  Pom- 
frette's  life.  The  Cure  came  also,  but  Pomfrette  was 
in  fever  and  delirium.  Yet  the  good  M.  Fabre's  pres- 
ence, as  it  ever  did,  gave  an  air  of  calm  and  comfort  to 
the  place.  Parpon's  hands  alone  cared  for  the  house ; 
he  did  all  that  was  to  be  done ;  no  woman  had  entered 
the  place  since  Pomfrette's  cousin,  old  Mme.  Bur- 
goyne,  left  it  on  the  day  of  his  shame. 

When  at  last  Pomfrette  opened  his.  eyes,  and  saw  the 
Cure  standing  beside  him,  he  turned  his  face  to  the 
wall,  and  to  the  exhortation  addressed  to  him  he  an- 
swered nothing.  At  last  the  Cure  left  him,  and  came 
no  more,  and  he  bade  Parpon  do  the  same  as  soon  as 
Pomfrette  was  able  to  leave  his  bed. 

But  Parpon  did  as  he  willed.  He  had  been  in  Pon- 
tiac  only  a  few  days  since  the  painful  business  in  front 
of  the  Louis  Quinze.  Where  he  had  been  and  what 
doing  no  one  asked,  for  he  was  mysterious  in  his  move- 


t,< 


THE   LITTLE   BELL   OF   HONOUR    115 

ments,  and  always  uncommunicative,  and  people  did 
not  care  to  tempt  his  inhospitable  tongue.  When  Pom- 
frette  was  so  far  recovered  that  he  might  be  left  alone, 
Parpon  said  to  him  one  evening : 

"  Pomfrette,  you  must  go  to  mass  next  Sunday/' 

"  I  said  I  wouldn't  go  till  I  was  carried  there,  and  I 
mean  it — that's  so,"  was  the  morose  reply. 

"  What  made  you  curse  like  that — so  damnable  ?  " 
asked  Parpon,  furtively. 

"  That's  my  own  business.  It  doesn't  matter  to  any- 
body but  me." 

"  And  you  said  the  Cure  lied — the  good  M'sieu' 
Fabre — him  like  a  saint." 

"  I  said  he  lied,  and  I'd  say  it  again,  and  tell  the 
truth." 

"  But  if  you  went  to  mass,  and  took  your  penance, 
and •" 

"  Yes,  I  know ;  they'd  forgive  me,  and  I'd  get  absolu- 
tion, and  they'd  all  speak  to  me  again,  and  it  would  be, 
'  Good  day,  Luc,'  and  *  Very  good,  Luc,'  and  '  What  a 
gay  heart  has  Luc,  the  good  fellow!'  Ah,  I  know. 
They  curse  in  the  heart  when  the  whole  world  go 
wrong  for  them ;  no  one  hears.  I  curse  out  loud.  I'm 
not  a  hypocrite,  and  no  one  thinks  me  fit  to  live.  Ack ! 
what  is  the  good  ?  " 

Parpon  did  not  respond  at  once.  At  last,  dropping 
his  chin  in  his  hand  and  his  elbow  on  his  knee,  as  he 
squatted  on  the  table,  he  .-aid  : 

"  But  if  the  girl  got  sorry " 

For  a  time  there  was  no  sound  save  the  whirring  of 
the  fire  in  the  stove  and  the  hard  breathing  of  the  sick 
man.  His  eyes  were  staring  hard  at  Parpon.  At  last 
he  said  slowly  and  fiercely : 

"What  do  you  know?" 


ii6    THE  LANE  THAT  HAD  NO  TURNING 


**  What  others  might  l<novv  if  they  had  eyes  and 
sense ;  hut  they  haven't.  What  would  you  do  if  that 
Junie  come  hack  ?  " 

"  I  would  kill  her !  "     His  look  was  murderous. 

"  l^ih !  you  would  kiss  her  first,  just  the  same." 

"  What  of  that  ?  I  would  kiss  her  hecause — hccause 
llicre  is  no  face  like  hers  in  the  world ;  and  I'd  kill  her 
for  her  had  heart,  and  hecause  1  hate  her  bad  heart." 

"Wliatdidshedo?" 

Pomfrette's  hands  clinched. 

"  What  is  in  my  own  noddle,  and  not  for  any  one 
else,"  he  answered  sulkily. 

'*  Ticns!  ticns!  what  a  close  mouth  !  What  did  she  do? 
Who  knows  ?  What  you  tJn)ik  she  do,  it's  this.  You 
think  she  j>retcnds  to  love  you,  and  you  leave  all  your 
money  with  her.  She  is  to  buy  masses  for  your  father's 
soul ;  she  is  to  pay  money  to  the  Cure  for  the  good  of 
the  Cluirch  ;  she  is  to  buy  a  little  here,  a  little  there,  for 
the  house  you  and  she  are  going  to  live  in,  the  wedding 
and  the  dancing  over.  Very  well.  Ah,  my  Pomfrettc, 
what  is  the  end  you  think  ?  She  run  away  with  Dicey 
the  Protestant,  and  take  your  money  with  her.  Eh,  is 
that  so  ?  " 

For  answer  there  came  a  sob,  and  then  a  terrible 
burst  of  weeping  and  anger  and  passionate  denuncia- 
tions— against  Junie  Gauloir,  against  Pontiac,  against 
the  world. 

Parpon  held  his  peace. 

The  days,  weeks,  and  months  went  by,  and  the 
months  stretched  to  three  years. 

In  all  that  time  Pomfrette  came  and  went  through 
Pontiac,  shunned  and  unrepentant.  His  silent,  gloomy 
endurance  w^as  almost  an  aflfront  to  Pontiac ;  and  if  the 
wiser  ones,  the  Cure,  the  Avocat,  the  Little  Chemist, 


THE    LTTTLE    BELL   OF    HONOUR    117 

nnd  Medallion,  were  more  sorry  than  offended,  they 
stood  aloof  till  the  man  should  in  some  manner  redeem 
himself,  and  repent  of  his  horrid  blasphemy.  But  one 
person  persistently  defied  church  and  people,  Cure 
and  voyageur.  Tarpon  openly  and  boldly  walked  with 
Pomfrctte,  talked  with  him,  and  occasionally  visited 
his  house. 

Luc  made  hard  shifts  to  live.  He  grew  everything 
that  he  ate,  vegetables  and  grains.  I'arpon  showed 
him  how  to  make  his  own  flour  in  primitive  fashion, 
for  no  miller  in  any  parish  near  would  sell  him  flour,  nor 
had  he  money  to  buy  it,  nor  would  any  one  who  knew 
him  give  him  work.  And  after  his  return  to  Pontiac 
he  never  asked  for  it.  His  mood  was  defiant,  morbid, 
stern.  His  wood  he  chopped  from  the  common 
known  as  No-Man's-Land.  His  clothes  he  made  him- 
self out  of  the  skins  of  deer  that  he  shot ;  when  his  pow- 
der and  shot  gave  out  he  killed  the  deer  with  bow  and 
arrow. 


HI 


The  end  came  at  last.  Luc  was  taken  ill.  For  four 
days,  all  alone,  he  lay  burning  with  fever  and  inflamma- 
tion, and  when  Parpon  found  him  he  was  almost  dead. 
Then  began  a  fight  for  life  again,  in  which  Parpon  was 
the  only  physician ;  for  Pomfrctte  would  not  allow  the 
Little  Chemist  or  a  doctor  near  him.  Parpon  at  last 
gave  up  hope ;  but  one  night,  when  he  came  back  from 
the  village,  he  saw,  to  his  joy,  old  Mme.  Degardy 
("  Crazy  Joan  "  she  was  called)  sitting  by  Pomfrette's 
bedside.  He  did  not  disturb  her,  for  she  had  no  love 
for  him,  and  he  waited  till  she  had  gone.  When  he 
came  into  the  room  again  he  found  Pomfrctte  in  a 


I'ti 


,^  _. 


ii8   THE  LANE  THAT  HAD  NO  TURNING 


sweet  sleep,  and  a  jittr  of  tincture,  with  a  little  tin  cup, 
placed  by  the  bed.  Time  and  again  he  had  sent  for 
Mnie.  Dcgardy,  but  she  would  not  come.  She  had 
answered  that  the  dear  Luc  could  go  to  the  devil  for  all 
of  her;  he'd  find  better  company  there  than  in  Pontiac. 

But  for  a  whim,  perhaps,  she  had  come  at  last  with- 
out asking,  and  as  a  consequence  Luc  returned  to  the 
world  a  mere  bundle  of  hones. 

It  was  still  while  he  was  only  a  bundle  of  bones  that 
one  Sunday  morning  Parpon,  without  a  word,  lifted 
him  up  in  his  arms  and  carried  him  out  of  the  house. 
Pomfrctte  did  not  speak  at  first :  it  seemed  scarcely 
worth  while ;  he  was  so  weak  he  did  not  care. 

"Where  are  you  going?"  he  said  at  last,  as  they 
came  well  into  the  village.  The  bell  in  St.  Saviour's 
had  stopped  ringing  for  mass,  and  the  streets  were 
almost  empty. 

"  I'm  taking  you  to  mass,"  said  Parpon,  puffing 
under  his  load,  for  Pomfrettc  made  an  ungainly  bur- 
den 

"  Hand  of  a  little  devil,  no ! "  cried  Pomfrette, 
startled.  "  I  said  I'd  never  go  to  mass  again,  and  I 
never  will." 

*'  You  said  you'd  never  go  to  mass  till  you  were  car- 
ried ;  so  it's  all  right." 

Once  or  twice  Pomfrette  struggled,  but  Parpon  held 
him  tight,  saying : 

"  It's  no  use ;  you  must  come ;  we've  had  enough. 
Besides " 

"  Besides  what  ?  "  asked  Pomfrette,  faintly. 

"  Never  mind,"  answered  Parpon. 

At  a  word  from  Parpon  the  shrivelled  old  sexton 
cleared  a  way  through  the  aisle,  making  a  stir,  through 
which  the  silver  bell  at  Pomfrette's  knee  tinkled,  in 


THE   LITTLE    BELL   OE    HONOUR    119 

answer,  as  it  were,  to  the  tinkling  of  the  acolyte's  bell 
in  tlie  sanctuary.  People  turned  at  the  sound,  women 
stopped  telling  their  heads,  some  of  the  choir  forgot 
their  chanting.  A  strange  feeling  passed  through  the 
church,  and  reached  and  startled  the  Cure  as  he  re- 
cited the  mass.  He  turner  round  and  saw  Parpon 
laying  Pomfrctte  down  at  the  chancel  steps.  His 
voice  shook  a  little  as  he  intoned  the  sacred  ritual,  and 
as  he  raised  the  sacred  elements  tears  rolled  down  his 
cheeks. 


,  as  they 
Saviour's 
2ets  were 

1,  puffing 
linly  bur- 

omfrette, 
.in,  and  I 

were  car- 

rpon  held 

enough. 


Id  sexton 
•,  through 
inkieu,  in 


From  a  distant  corner  of  the  gallery  a  deeply  veiled 
woman  also  looked  down  at  Pomfrctte,  and  her  hand 
trembled  on  the  desk  before  her. 

At  last  the  Cure  came  forward  to  the  chancel  steps. 

"  What  is  it,  Parpon  ?  "  he  asked  gravely. 

"  It  is  Luc  Pomfrctte,  m'sicu'  le  Cure."  Pomfrette's 
eyes  were  closed. 

"  He  swore  that  he  would  never  come  to  mass 
again,"  answered  the  good  priest. 

"  Till  he  was  carried,  m'sieu'  le  Cure — and  Eve  car- 
ried him." 

"  Did  you  come  of  your  own  free  will,  and  with  a 
repentant  heart,  Luc  Pomfrctte?  "  asked  the  Cure. 

"  I  did  not  know  I  was  coming — no."  Pomfrette's 
brown  eyes  met  the  priest's  unflinchingly. 

"  You  have  defied  God,  and  yet  he  has  spared  your 
life." 

"  Ed  rather  have  died,"  answered  the  sick  man, 
simply. 

"  Died,  and  been  cast  to  perdition !  " 

"  Em  used  to  that ;  Eve  had  a  bad  time  here  in 
Pontiac." 

His  thin  hands  moved  restlessly.     His  leg  moved, 


,  i 


-~K~- 


120  THE  LANE  THAT  HAD  NO  TURNING 

and  the  little  bell  tinkled — the  bell  that  had  been  like 
the  bell  of  a  leper  these  years  past. 

"  But  you  live,  and  you  have  years  yet  before  you, 
in  the  providence  of  God.  Luc  Pomfrette,  you  blas- 
phemed against  your  baptism,  and  horribly  against 
God  himself.  Luc  " — his  voice  got  softer — "  I  knew 
your  mother,  and  she  was  almost  too  weak  to  hold 
you  when  you  were  baptized,  for  you  made  a  great 
to-do  about  coming  into  the  world.  She  had  a  face 
like  a  saint — so  sweet,  so  patient.  You  were  her  only 
child,  and  your  baptism  was  more  to  her  than  her 
marriage  even,  or  any  other  thing  in  this  world.  The 
day  after  your  baptism  she  died.  What  do  you  think 
were  her  last  words  ?  " 

There  was  a  hectic  flush  on  Pomfrette's  face,  and  his 
eyes  were  intense  and  burning  as  they  looked  up 
fixedly  at  the  Cure. 

"  I  can't  think  any  more,"  answered  Pomfrette, 
slowly.     "  I've  no  head." 

"  What  she  said  is  for  your  heart,  not  for  your  head, 
Luc,"  rejoined  the  Cure,  gently.  "  She  wandered  in 
her  mind,  and  at  the  last  she  raised  herself  up  in  her 
bed,  and  lifting  her  finger  like  this  " — he  made  the 
gesture  of  benediction — "  she  st^'^x,  '  Luc  Micliee,  I 
baptize  you  in  the  name  of  the  Father,  and  of  the  Son, 
and  of  the  Holy  Ghost.  Amen.'  Then  she  whis- 
pered softly :  *  God  bless  my  dear  Luc  Michee !  Holy 
Mother,  pray  for  him ! '  These  were  her  last  words, 
and  I  took  you  from  her  arms.  What  have  you  to 
say,  Luc  Michee  ?  " 

The  woman  in  the  gallery  was  weeping  .  'lently  be- 
hind her  thick  veil,  and  her  worn  hand  clu.ched  the 
desk  in  front  of  her  convulsively.  Presently  she  arose 
and  made  her  way  down  the  stair,  almost  unnoticed. 


«* 


THE    LITTLE    BELL   OF   HONOUR    121 

Two  or  three  times  Luc  tried  to  speak,  but  could  not. 

"  Lift  me  up !  "  he  said  brokenly,  at  last. 

Parpon  and  the  Little  Chemist  raised  him  to  his 
feet,  and  held  him,  his  shaking  hands  resting  on  their 
shoulders,  his  lank  body  tottering  above  and  between 
them. 

Looking  at  the  congregation,  he  said  slowly:  "  I'll 
suffer  till  I  die  for  cursing  my  baptism,  and  God  will 
twist  my  neck  in  purgatory  for " 

"  Luc,"  the  Cure  interrupted,  "  say  that  you  repent." 

"  I'm  sorry,  and  I  ask  you  all  to  forgive  me,  and  I'll 

confess  to  the  Cure,  and  take  my  penance,  and " 

he  paused,  for  breathing  hurt  him. 

At  that  moment  the  woman  in  black  who  had  been 
in  the  gallery  came  quickly  forward.  Parpon  saw 
her,  frowned,  and  waved  her  back ;  but  she  came  on. 
At  the  chancel  steps  she  raised  her  veil,  and  a  mur- 
mur of  recognition  and  wonder  ran  through  the 
church.  Pomfrette's  £ace  was  pitiful  to  see — drawn, 
staring. 

"  Junie  Gauloir !  "  he  said  hoarsely. 

Her  eyes  were  red  with  weeping,  her  face  was  very 
pale. 

"  M'sieu'  le  Cure,"  she  said,  "  you  must  listen  to 
me " — the  Cure's  face  had  become  forbidding — 
"  sinner  thougji  I  am.  You  want  to  be  just,  don't  you  ? 
Ah,  listen !  I  was  to  be  married  to  Luc  Pomfrette,  but 
I  did  not  love  him — then.  He  had  loved  me  for  years, 
and  his  father  and  my  father  wished  it — as  you  know, 
m'sieu'  le  Cure.  So  after  a  while  I  said  I  would;  but 
I  begged  him  that  he  wouldn't  say  anything  about  it 
till  he  come  back  from  his  next  journey  on  the  river. 
I  did  not  love  him  enough — then.  He  left  all  his 
money  with  me :  some  to  pay  for  Masses  for  his  father's 


« 


;i  I 


122    THE  LANE  THAT  HAD  NO  TURNING 


VH 


!i' 


soul,  some  to  buy  things  for — for  our  home,  and  the 
rest  to  keep  till  he  came  back." 

"  Yes,  yes,"  said  Pomfrette,  his  eyes  fixed  painfully 
on  her  face ;  "  yes,  yes !  " 

"  The  day  after  Luc  went  away  John  Dicey  the 
Protestant  come  to  me.  Pd  always  liked  him  ;  he  could 
talk  as  Luc  couldn't,  and  it  sounded  nice.  I  listened 
and  listened.  He  knew  about  Luc  and  about  the 
money  and  all.  Then  he  talked  to  me.  I  was  all  wild 
in  the  head,  and  things  went  round  and  round,  and  oh, 
how  I  hated  to  marry  Luc — then !  So  after  he  had 
talked  a  long  while  I  said  yes,  I  would  go  with  him  and 
marry  him — a  Protestant;  for  I  loved  him.  I  don't 
know  why  or  how." 

Pomfrette  trembled  so  that  Parpon  and  the  Little 
Chemist  made  him  sit  down,  and  he  leaned  against 
their  shoulders,  while  Junie  went  on. 

"  I  gave  him  Luc's  money  to  go  and  give  to  Parpon 
here,  for  I  was  too  ashamed  to  go  myself.  And  I  wrote 
a  little  note  to  Luc,  and  sent  it  with  the  money.  I  be- 
lieved in  John  Dicey,  of  course.  He  came  back,  and 
said  that  he  had  seen  Parpon  and  had  done  it  all  right ; 
then  we  went  away  to  Montreal  and  got  married.  The 
very  first  day  at  Montreal  I  found  out  that  he  had  Luc's 
money.  It  was  awful ;  I  went  mad,  and  he  got  angry 
and  left  me  alone,  and  didn't  come  back.  A  week  after- 
wards he  was  killed,  and  I  didn't  knew  it  for  a  long 
time.  But  I  began  to  work,  for  I  wanted  to  pay  back 
Luc's  money.  It  was  very  slow,  and  I  worked  hard. 
Will  it  never  be  finished?  I  say.  At  last  Parpon  find 
me,  and  I  tell  him  all — all  except  that  John  Dicey  was 
dead,  and  I  did  not  know  that.  I  made  him  promise 
to  tell  nobody,  but  he  knows  all  about  my  life  since 
then.    Then  I  find  out  one  day  that  John  Dicey  is  dead, 


THE    LITTLE    BELL   OF   HONOUR     123 


)icey  the 
he  could 
[  listened 
bout  the 
LS  all  wild 
1,  and  oh, 
;r  he  had 
1  him  and 
I  don't 

the  Little 
;d  against 

to  Parpon 
id  I  wrote 
ey.     I  be- 
back,  and 
all  right ; 
bed.     The 
had  Luc's 
got  angry 
^^eek  after- 
for  a  long 
3  pay  back 
rked  hard, 
arpon  find 
Dicey  was 
m  promise 
yr  life  since 
;ey  is  dead, 


and  I  get  from  tht  gover'ment  a  hundred  dollars  of  the 
money  he  stole.  It  was  found  on  him  when  he  was 
killed.  I  work  for  six  months  longer,  and  now  I  come 
back — with  Luc's  money." 

She  drew  from  her  pocket  a  packet  of  notes,  and  put 
it  in  Luc's  hands.  He  took  it  dazedly,  then  dropped  it, 
and  the  Little  Chemist  picked  it  up;  he  had  no  pre- 
scription like  that  in  his  pharmacopoeia. 

"  That's  how  I've  lived,"  she  said,  and  she  handed  a 
letter  to  the  Cure. 

It  was  from  a  priest  in  Montreal,  setting  forth  the 
history  of  her  career  in  that  city,  her  repentance  for 
her  elopement  and  the  sin  of  marrying  a  Protestant, 
and  her  good  life.  She  had  wished  to  do  her  penance  in 
Pontiac,  and  it  remained  to  m'sieu'  le  Cure  to  set  it. 
The  Cure's  face  relaxed,  and  a  rare  gentleness  came 
into  it. 

He  read  the  letter  aloud.  Luc  once  more  struggled 
to  his  feet,  eagerly  listening. 

"  You  did  not  love  Luc  "^  "  the  Cure  asked  Junie, 
meaningly. 

"  I  did  not  love  Luc — then,"  she  answered,  a  flush 
going  over  her  face. 

''  You  loved  Junie  ?  "  the  Cure  said  to  Pomfrette. 

"  I  could  have  killed  her,  but  I've  always  loved 
her,"  answered  Luc.  Then  he  raised  his  voice  ex- 
citedly. "  I  love  her,  love  her,  love  her— but  what's 
the  good  !  She'd  never  've  been  happy  with  me.  Look 
what  my  love  drove  her  to!  What's  the  good,  at 
all !  " 

"  She  said  she  did  not  love  you  then,  Luc  Michee," 
said  Parpon,  interrupting.  "  Luc  Michee,  you're  a 
fool  as  well  as  a  sinner.     Speak  up,  Junie." 

used  to  tell  him  that  I  didn't  love  him ;  I  only 


"  T 


124   THE  LANE  THAT  HAD  NO  TURNING 

liked  him.  I  was  honest.  Well,  I  am  honest  still.  I 
love  him  now." 

A  sound  of  joy  broke  from  Luc's  lips,  and  he 
stretched  out  his  arms  to  her,  but  the  Cure  stopped 
that. 

"  Not  here,"  he  said.  "  Your  sins  must  first  be  con- 
sidered. For  penance — "  He  paused,  looking  at  the 
two  sad  yet  happy  beings  before  him.  The  deep  knowl- 
edge of  life  that  was  in  him  impelled  him  to  continue 
gently : 

"  For  penance  you  shall  bear  the  remembrance  of 
each  other's  sins.    And  now  to  God  the  Father " 

He  turned  toward  the  altar,  and  raised  his  hands  in 
the  ascription. 

As  he  knelt  to  pray  before  he  entered  the  pulpit,  he 
heard  the  tinkling  of  the  little  bell  of  honour  at  the 
knee  of  Luc,  as  Junie  and  Parpon  helped  him  from 
the  church. 


A  SON  OF  THE  WILDERNESS 


i.!:,  -   \ 


I 

be< 
tor 


thr 

ad 

the 

ap 

anc 

'B; 

it  t 

'B 

the 

thr 

kin 

wil 

anc 

my 


the 
ma: 
goi 
eye 


A  SON  OF  THE  WILDERNESS. 


RACHETTE  told  the  story  to  Medallion  and  the 
Little  Chemist's  wife  on  Sunday  after  Mass,  and 
because  he  was  vain  of  his  English  he  forsook  his  own 
tongue  and  paid  tribute  to  the  Anglo-Saxon. 

"  Ah,  she  was  so  purty,  that  Norinne,  when  she  drive 
through  the  parishes  all  twelve  days,  after  the  wedding, 
a  dance  every  night,  and  her  eyes  and  cheeks  on  fire  all 
the  time.  And  Bargon,  bagosli !  that  Bargon,  he  have 
a  pair  of  shoulders  like  a  wall,  and  five  hunder'  dollars 
and  a  horse  and  wagon.     Bagosh !  I  say  that  time, 

*  Bargon  he  have  put  a  belt  round  the  world  and  buckle 
it  tight  to  him — all  right,  ver'  good.'     I  say  to  him: 

*  Bargon,  what  you  do  when  you  get  ver'  rich  out  on 
the  Souris  River  in  the  prairie  west  ?  *  He  laugh  and 
throw  up  his  hands,  for  he  have  not  many  words  any 
kind.  And  the  damn  little  dwarf  Parpon,  he  say :  *  He 
will  have  flowers  on  the  table  and  ice  on  the  butter, 
and  a  wheel  in  his  head.' 

"  And  Bargon  laugh  and  say :  *  I  will  have  plenty  for 
my  friends  to  eat  and  drink  and  a  ver'  fine  time.* 

"  '  Good ! '  we  all  say—'  Bagosh ! ' 

"  So  they  make  the  trip  through  twelve  parish,  and 
the  fiddles  go  all  the  time,  and  I  am  what  you  say  best 
man  with  Bargon.  I  go  all  the  time,  and  Lucette  Dar- 
gois,  she  go  with  me  and  her  brother — holy!  what  an 
eye  had  she  in  her  head,  that  Lucette !    As  we  go  we 


**«ll 


128    THE  LANE  THAT  HAD  NO  TURNING 


sing  a  song  all  right,  and  there  is  no  one  sing  so  better 
as  Norinne : 

'*  '  C'est  la  belle  Frangoise, 

Allons  gai  ! 
C'est  la  belle  Fran9oise, 
Qui  veut  se  marier, 

Ma  luron  lurette  ! 
Qui  veut  se  marier, 

Ma  luron  lure  !  * 

"  Vcr'  good,  bagosh !  Norinne  and  Bargon  they  go 
out  to  the  Souris,  and  Bargon  have  a  hunder'  acre,  and 
he  put  up  a  house  and  a  shed  not  ver'  big,  and  he  carry 
his  head  high  and  his  shoulders  like  a  wall ;  yes,  yes. 
First  year  it  is  pretty  good  time,  and  Norinne's  cheeks 
— ah,  like  an  apple  they.  Bimeby  a  baby  laugh  up  at 
Bargon  from  Norinne's  lap.  I  am  on  the  Souris  at  a 
sawmill  then,  and  on  Sunday  sometime  I  go  up  to  see 
Bargon  and  Norinne.  I  t'ink  that  baby  is  so  damn 
funny ;  I  laugh  and  pinch  his  nose ;  his  name  is  Marie, 
and  I  say  I  "marry  him  pretty  quick  some  day.  We  have 
plenty  hot  cake,  and  beans  and  pork,  and  a  little  how- 
you-are  from  a  jar  behin'  the  door. 

"  Next  year  it  is  not  so  good.  There  is  a  bad  crop 
and  hard  times,  and  Bargon  he  owe  two  hunJer'  dollar, 
and  he  pay  int'rest.  Norinne,  she  do  all  the  work,  and 
that  little  Marie,  there  is  damn  funny  in  him,  and  No- 
rinne, she  keep  go,  go,  all  the  time,  early  and  late,  and 
she  get  ver'  thin  and  quiet.  So  I  go  up  from  the  mill 
more  times,  and  I  bring  fol-lols  for  that  Marie,  for  you 
know  I  said  I  go  to  marry  him  some  day.  And  when  I 
see  how  Bargon  shoulders  stoop  and  his  eye  get  dull, 
and  there  is  nothing  in  the  jar  behin'  the  door,  I  fetch 
a  horn  with  me,  and  my  fiddle,  and,  bagosh !  there  is 
happy  sit-you-down.     I  make  Bargon  sing  *  La  Belle 


M 


A   SON   OF   THE   WILDERNESS       129 

Frangoise,'  and  then  just  before  I  go  I  make  them 
laugh,  for  I  stand  by  the  cradle  and  I  sing  to  that 
Marie : 

"  '  Adieu,  belle  Fran9oise  ; 

AUons  gai ! 
Adieu,  belle  Frangoise ' 
Moi,  je  te  marierai, 

Ma  luron  lurette 
Moi,  je  te  marierai, 

Ma  luron  lure  ! ' 


"  So ;  and  another  year  it  go  along,  and  Bargon  he 
know  that  if  there  come  bad  crop  it  is  good-bye-my- 
lovcr  with  himse'ves.  He  owe  two  hunder'  and  fifty 
dollar.  It  is  the  spring  at  Easter,  and  I  go  up  to  him 
and  Norinne,  for  there  is  no  Mass,  and  Pontiac  is  too 
far  away  off.  We  stan'  at  the  door  and  look  out,  and 
all  the  prairie  is  green,  and  the  sun  stan*  up  high  like  a 
light  on  a  pole,  and  the  birds  fly  by  ver'  busy  looking 
for  the  summer  and  the  prairie-flower. 

"  '  Bargon,'  I  say — and  I  give  him  a  horn  of  old  rye 
— *  here's  to  le  bon  Dieu  ! ' 

"  *  Le  bon  Dieu,  and  a  good  harvest ! '  he  say. 

"  I  hear  some  one  give  a  long  breath  behin',  and  I 
look  round ;  but,  no !  it  is  Norinne  with  a  smile — for 
she  never  grumble — bagosh  !  What  purty  eyes  she 
have  in  her  head !  She  have  that  Marie  in  her  arms, 
and  I  say  to  Bargon  it  is  like  the  Madonna  in  the  Notre 
Dame  at  Montreal.  He  nod  his  head.  *  C'est  le  bon 
Dieu — it  is  the  good  God,'  he  say. 

"  Before  I  go  I  take  a  piece  of  palm — it  come  from 
the  Notre  Dame ;  it  is  all  bless  by  the  Pope — and  I  nail 
it  to  the  door  of  the  house.  *  For  luck,'  I  say.  Then  I 
laugh,  and  I  speak  out  to  the  prairie :  *  Come  along, 
good  summer ;  come  along,  good  crop ;  come  two  hun- 

9 


I30   THE  LANE  THAT  HAD  NO  TURNING 

clcr'  and  fifty  dollars  for  Gal  Bargon.*  Ver'  quiet  I 
give  lorinnc  twenty  dollar,  but  she  will  not  take  him. 
*  For  Marie,'  then  I  say ;  '  I  go  to  marry  him,  bimeby.' 
But  she  say,  *  Keep  it  and  give  it  to  Marie  yourself 
some  day.* 

"  She  smile  at  me,  then  she  have  a  little  tear  in  her 
eye,  and  she  nod  to  where  Bargon  stan'  houtside,  and 
she  say :  '  If  this  summer  go  wrong,  it  will  kill  him. 
He  work  and  work  and  fret  and  worry  for  me  and 
Marie,  and  sometimes  he  just  sit  and  look  at  me  and 
say  not  a  word.' 

"  I  say  to  her  that  there  will  be  good  crop,  and  next 
year  we  will  be  ver'  happy.  So,  the  time  go  on,  and  I 
send  up  a  leetla  snack  of  pork  and  molass'  and  tabac, 
and  sugar  and  tea,  and  I  get  a  letter  from  Bargon  bime- 
by, and  he  say  that  heverything  go  right,  he  t'ink,  this 
summer.  He  say  I  must  come  up.  It  is  not  damn 
easy  to  go  in  the  summer,  when  the  mill  run  night  and 
day,  but  I  say  I  will  go. 

"  When  I  get  up  to  Bargon's  I  laugh,  for  all  the  hun- 
der'  acre  is  ver'  fine,  and  Bargon  stan'  hin  the  door, 
and  stretch  out  his  hand,  and  say :  *  Rachette,  there  is 
six  hunder'  dollar  for  me.'  I  nod  my  head,  and  fetch 
out  a  horn,  and  he  have  one,  his  eyes  all  bright  like  a 
lime-kiln.  He  is  thin  and  square,  and  his  beard  grow 
ver'  thick  and  rough  and  long,  and  his  hands  are  like 
planks.  Norinne,  she  is  ver'  happy,  too,  and  Marie 
bite  on  my  finger,  and  I  give  him  sugar-stick  to  suck. 

"  Bimeby  Norinne  say  to  me,  ver'  soft :  '  If  a  hail- 
storm or  a  hot  wind  come,  that  is  the  end  of  it  all,  and 
of  my  poor  Gal.' 

"  What  I  do  ?  I  laugh  and  ketch  Marie  under  the 
arms,  and  I  sit  down,  and  I  put  him  on  my  foot,  and  I 
sing  that  damn  funny  English  song — '  Here  We  Go 


A   SON   OF   THE   WILDERNESS       131 


to  Banbury  Cross.'  An'  I  say : '  It  will  be  all  as  happy 
as  Marie  pretty  quick.  Bargon  he  will  have  six  hun- 
dcr'  dollar,  and  you  a  new  dress  and  a  hired  girl  to  help 
you.' 

"  But  all  the  time  that  day  I  think  about  a  hailstorm 
or  a  hot  wind  whenever  I  look  out  on  that  hunder' 
acre  farm.  It  is  so  beautibul,  as  you  can  guess — the 
wheat,  the  barley,  the  corn,  the  potatoes,  the  turnip,  all 
green  like  sea  water,  and  pigeons  and  wild  ducks  flying 
up  and  down,  and  the  horse  and  the  ox  standing  in  a 
field  ver'  comfer'ble. 

"  We  have  good  time  that  day,  and  go  to  bed  all 
happy  that  night.  I  get  up  at  five  o'clock,  an'  I  go 
hout.  Bargon  stan'  there  looking  out  on  his  field  with 
the  horse  bridle  in  his  hand.  *  The  air  not  feel  right,' 
he  say  to  me,  I  t'ink  the  same,  but  I  say  to  him : 
*  Your  head  not  feel  right — him  too  sof'.'  He  shake 
his  head  and  go  down  to  the  field  for  his  horse  and  ox, 
and  hitch  them  up  together,  and  go  to  work  making  a 
road. 

"  It  is  about  ten  o'clock  when  the  damn  thing  come. 
Piff !  go  a  hot  splash  of  air  in  my  face,  and  then  I  know 
that  it  is  all  up  with  Gal  Bargon.  A  month  after  it  is 
no  matter,  for  the  grain  is  ripe  then,  but  now,  when  it 
is  green,  it  is  sure  death  to  it  all.  I  turn  sick  in  my 
stomich,  and  I  turn  round  and  see  Norinne  stan'  hin 
the  door,  all  white,  and  she  make  her  hand  go  as  that, 
like  she  push  back  that  hot  wind. 

"'Where  is  Gal?'  she  say.  'I  must  go  to  him.' 
'  No,'  I  say,  *  I  will  fetch  him.  You  stay  with  Marie.' 
Then  I  go  ver'  quick  for  Gal,  and  I  find  him,  his  hands 
all  shut  like  that !  and  he  shake  them  at  the  sky,  and  he 
say  not  a  word,  but  his  face,  it  go  wild,  and  his  eyes 
spin  round  in  his  head.     I  put  my  hand  on  his  arm 


132    THE  LANE  THAT  HAD  NO  TURNING 


i  I 


and  say :  *  Come  home,  Gal.  Come  home,  and  speak 
kind  to  Norinne  and  Marie.' 

"  I  can  see  that  hot  wind  lean  down  and  twist  the 
grain  about — a  damn  devil  thing  from  the  Arzone  des- 
ert down  South.  I  take  Gal  back  home,  and  we  sit 
there  all  day,  and  all  the  nex'  day,  and  a  leetla  more, 
and  when  we  have  look  enough,  there  is  no  grain  on 
that  hunder'  acre  fa.  m — only  a  dry-up  prairie,  all  gray 
and  limp.  My  skin  is  bake  and  rough,  but  when  I  look 
at  Gal  Bargon  I  know  that  his  heart  is  dry  like  a  bone, 
and,  as  Parpon  say  that  back  time,  he  have  a  wheel  in 
his  head.  Norinne  she  is  quiet,  and  she  sit  with  her 
hand  on  his  shoulder,  and  give  him  Marie  to  hold. 

**  But  it  is  no  good ;  it  is  all  over.  So  I  say :  *  Let  us 
go  back  to  Pontiac.  What  is  the  good  for  to  be  rich  ? 
Let  us  be  poor  and  happy  once  more.' 

"  And  Norinne  she  look  glad,  and  go  up  and  say : 

*  Yes,  let  us  go  back.'  But  all  at  once  she  sit  down 
with  Marie  in  her  arms,  and  cry — bagosh !  I  never  see 
a  woman  cry  like  that. 

"  So  we  start  back  for  Pontiac  with  the  horse  and  the 
ox  and  some  pork  and  bread  and  molass'.  But  Gal 
Bargon  never  hold  up  his  head,  but  go  silent,  silent, 
and  he  not  sleep  at  night.  One  night  he  walk  away 
on  the  prairie,  and  when  he  come  back  he  have  a  great 
pain.  So  he  lie  down,  and  we  sit  by  him,  an'  he  die. 
But  once  he  whisper  to  me,  and  Norinne  not  hear: 

*  You  say  you  will  marry  him,  Rachette  ?  '  and  I  say,  *  I 
will.' 

"  *  C'est  le  bon  Dieu ! '  he  say  at  the  last,  but  he  say  it 
with  a  little  laugh.  I  think  he  have  a  wheel  in  his 
head.  But  bimeby,  yiste'day,  Norinne  and  Marie  and 
I  come  to  Pontiac." 

The  Little  Chemist's  wife  dried  her  eyes,  and  Medal- 


A   SON    OF   THE   WILDERNESS       133 

Hon  said  in  Ficnch:  *'  Poor  Norinne!  Poor  Norinne! 
And  so,  Racliettc,  you  are  poinfj  to  marry  Marie,  by 
and  by? "  There  was  a  quizzical  look  in  Medallion's 
eyes. 

Rachette  threw  up  his  chin  a  little.  "  Pm  going  to 
marry  Norinne  on  New  Year's  Day,"  he  said. 

'*  Bagosh  !  poor  Norinne,"  said  Medallion,  in  a  queer 
sort  of  tone.  ''  It  is  the  way  of  the  world,"  he  added. 
"  I'll  wait  for  Marie  myself." 

It  looks  as  if  he  meant  .o,  for  she  has  no  better  friend. 
He  talks  to  her  much  of  Gal  Bargon;  of  which  her 
mother  is  glad,  for  there  is  but  one  great  love  in  a 
woman's  life.  All  others  have  different  names  and 
meanings. 


:    1 


14 


I  1 


I 


A  WORKER  IN  STONE 


A   WORKER   IN    STONE 


AT  the  beginning  he  was  only  a  tombstone-cutter. 
His  name  was  Frangois  Lagarre.  He  was  but 
twenty  years  old  when  he  stepped  into  the  shop  where 
the  old  tombstone-cutter  had  worked  for  forty  years. 
Picking  up  the  hammer  and  chisel  which  the  old  man 
had  dropped  when  he  fell  dead  at  the  end  of  a  long  hot 
day's  labour,  he  finished  the  half-carved  tombstone, 
and  gave  the  price  of  it  to  the  widow.  Then,  going  to 
the  Seigneur  and  Cure,  he  asked  them  to  buy  the  shop 
and  tools  for  him,  and  let  him  pay  rent  until  he  could 
take  the  place  off  their  hands. 

They  did  as  he  asked,  and  in  two  years  he  had 
bought  and  paid  for  the  place,  and  had  a  few  dollars  to 
the  good.  During  one  of  the  two  years  a  smallpox 
epidemic  passed  over  Pontiac,  and  he  was  busy  night 
and  day.  It  was  during  this  tiine  that  some  good 
Catholics  came  to  him  with  an  heretical  Protestant 
suggestion  to  carve  a  couplet  or  verse  of  poetry  on  the 
tombstones  they  ordered.  They  themselves,  in  most 
cases,  knew  none,  and  they  asked  Francois  to  supply 
.!iem — as  though  he  kept  them  in  stock  like  marble 
and  sandpaper.  He  had  no  collection  of  suitable  epi- 
taphs, and,  besides,  he  did  not  know  whether  it  was 
right  to  use  them.  Like  all  his  race  in  New  France 
he  was  jealous  of  any  inroads  of  Protestantism,  or  what 
the  Little  Chemist  called  "  Englishness."  The  good 
M.  Fabre,  the  Cure,  saw  no  harm  in  it,  but  said  he 


133    THE  LANE  THAT  HAD  NO  TURNING 

could  not  speak  for  any  one's  grief.  What  the  be- 
reaved folk  felt  they  themselves  must  put  in  words 
upon  the  stone.  But  still  Francjois  might  bring  all  the 
epitaphs  to  him  before  they  were  carved,  and  he  would 
approve  or  disapprove,  correct  or  reject,  as  the  case 
might  be. 

At  first  he  rejected  many,  for  they  were  mostly  ste- 
reotyped verses,  taken  unknowingly  from  Protestant 
sources  by  mourning  Catholics.  But  presently  all 
that  was  changed,  and  the  Cure  one  day  had  laid  before 
him  three  epitaphs,  each  of  which  left  his  hand  unre- 
vised  and  untouched  ;  and  when  he  passed  them  back  to 
Frangois  his  eyes  were  moist,  for  he  was  a  man  truly 
after  God's  own  heart,  and  full  of  humanity. 

**  Will  you  read  them  to  me,  Francois?  "  he  said,  as 
the  worker  in  stone  was  about  to  put  the  paper  back  in 
his  pocket.  "  Give  the  names  of  the  dead  at  the  same 
time." 

So  Fran<;ois  read : 

"  Gustave  Narrois,  aged  seventy-two  years " 

"  Yes,  yes,"  interrupted  the  Cure,  "  the  unhappy  yet 
happy  Gustave,  hung  by  the  English,  and  cut  down 
just  in  time  to  save  him — an  innocent  man.  For  thirty 
years  my  sexton.  God  rest  his  soul !  Well  now,  the 
epitaph." 

Francois  read  it : 

"  Poor  as  .1  sparrow  was  I, 
Yet  I  was  saved  like  a  king; ; 
I  heard  the  death-bells  ring, 
Yet  I  saw  a  light  in  the  sky  : 
And  now  to  my  Father  I  wing." 


The  Cure  nodded  his  head.     "  Go  on ;  the  next,"  he 
said. 


A   WORKER   IN    STONE 


139 


at  the  be- 
in  words 
ing  all  the 
1  he  would 
LS  the  case 

mostly  ste- 
Protestant 
•esently  all 
laid  before 
hand  unre- 
lem  back  to 
L  man  truly 

he  said,  as 
Lper  back  in 
at  the  same 


irs- 


»» 


mhappy  yet 
cut  down 
For  thirty 

ell  now,  the 


le  next,"  he 


H 


"  Annette  John,  aged  twenty  years " 

"  So.  The  daughter  of  Chief  John.  When  Queen 
Anne  of  England  was  on  the  ihrone  she  sent  Chief 
John's  grandfather  a  gold  cup  and  a  hundred  pounds. 
The  girl  loved,  but  would  not  marry,  that  she  might 
keep  Chief  John  from  drinking.  A  saint,  Francois! 
What  have  they  said  of  her  ?  " 
Francois  smoothed  out  the  paper  and  read : 

"  A  little  while  I  saw  the  world  go  by — 
A  little  doorway  that  I  called  my  own, 
A  loaf,  a  cup  of  water,  and  a  bed  had  I, 

A  shrine  of  Jesus,  where  I  knelt  alone  : 
And  now  alone  I  bid  the  world  good-bye." 

The  Cure  turned  his  head  away.  "  Go  on,"  he  said 
sadly.    "  Chief  John  has  lost  his  right  hand.    Go  on." 

"  Henri  Rouget " 

"  Aged  thirty  years,"  again  interrupted  the  Cure. 
"  Henri  Rouget,  idiot ;  as  young  as  the  morning.  For 
man  grows  old  only  by  what  he  suffers,  and  what  he 
forgives,  and  what  he  sins.  What  have  you  to  say  for 
Henri  Rouget,  my  Francois  ?  " 

And  Francois  read : 

"  I  was  a  fool ;  nothing  had  I  to  know 
Of  men,  and  naught  to  men  had  I  to  give. 
God  gave  me  nothing  ;  n*.  'v  to  God  I  go, 
Now  ask  for  pain,  for  bread. 
Life  for  my  brain  :  dead. 
By  God's  love  I  shall  then  begin  to  live." 

The  priest  rose  to  his  feet  and  put  a  hand  on  the 
young  man's  shoulder. 

"  Do  you  know,  FranQois,"  he  said,  half  sadly,  "  do 
you  know,  you  have  the  true  thing  in  you.    Come  often 


140   THE  LANE  THAT  HAD  NO  TURNING 


to  me,  my  son,  and  bring  all  these  things — all  you 
write." 

While  the  Cure  troubled  himself  about  his  future, 
Francois  began  to  work  upon  a  monument  for  the 
grave  of  a  dozen  soldiers  of  Pontiac  who  were  killed  in 
the  War  of  the  Patriots.  They  had  died  for  a  mistaken 
cause,  and  had  been  buried  on  the  field  of  battle.  Long 
ago  something  would  have  been  done  to  commemorate 
them  but  that  three  of  them  were  Protestants,  and  dif- 
ficulties had  been  raised  by  the  bigoted.  But  Francois 
thought  only  of  the  young  men  in  their  common  grave 
at  St.  Eustache.  He  remembered  when  they  went 
away  one  bright  morning,  full  of  the  joy  of  an  erring 
patriotism,  of  the  ardor  of  a  weak  but  fascinating 
cause :  race  against  race,  the  conquered  against  the 
conquerors,  the  usurped  against  the  usurpers. 

In  the  space  before  the  parish  church  it  stands — a 
broken  shaft,  with  an  unwound  wreath  straying  down 
its  sides;  a  monument  of  fine  proportions,  a  white 
figure  of  beaten  valour  and  erring  ardour  of  youth 
and  beautiful  bad  ambition.  One  Saturday  night  it 
was  not  there,  and  when  next  morning  the  people  came 
to  mass  it  was  there.  All  night  had  Frangois  and  his 
men  worked,  and  the  first  rays  of  the  morning  sun  fell 
on  the  tall  shivered  shaft  set  firmly  in  its  place.  Fran- 
<^ois  was  a  happy  man.  All  else  that  he  had  done  had 
been  wholly  after  a  crude,  staring  convention,  after  rule 
and  measure — an  artisan's,  a  tombstone  cutter's 
labour.  This  was  the  work  of  a  man  with  the  heart 
and  mind  of  an  artist.  When  the  people  came  to 
mass  they  gazed  and  gazed,  and  now  and  then  the 
weeping  of  a  woman  was  heard,  for  among  them  were 
those  whose  sons  and  brothers  were  made  memorable 
by  this  stone. 


'"V- 


NING 
—all  you 

is  future, 
t  for  the 
I  killed  in 
mistaken 
ie.  Long 
nemorate 
,  and  dif- 
Franqois 
ion  grave 
hey  went 
an  erring 
iscinating 


stands — a 
ring  down 
a  white 
of  youth 
J  night  it 
ople  came 
is  and  his 
g  sun  fell 
Fran- 
done  had 
after  rule 
cutter's 
the  heart 
came  to 
then  the 
lem  were 
lemorable 


A   WORKER   IN   STONE 


141 


That  day  at  the  close  of  his  sermon  the  Cure  spoke 
of  it,  and  said  at  the  last :  *'  That  white  sha^t,  dear 
brethren,  is  for  us  a  sign  of  remembrance  and  a  warn- 
ing to  our  souls.  In  the  name  of  race  and  for  their  love 
they  sinned.  But  yet  they  sinned ;  and  this  monument, 
the  gift  and  work  of  one  young  like  them,  ardent  and 
desiring  like  them,  is  for  ever  in  our  eyes  the  cruci- 
fixion of  our  wrong  ambitions  and  our  selfish  aims. 
Nay,  let  us  be  wise  and  let  us  be  good.  They  who  rule 
us  speak  with  foreign  tongue,  but  their  hearts  desire  our 
peace  and  a  mutual  regard.  Pray  that  this  be.  And 
pray  for  the  young  and  the  daring  and  the  foolish. 
And  pray  also  that  he  who  has  given  us  here  a  good 
gift  may  find  his  thanks  in  our  better-ordered  lives, 
and  that  he  may  consecrate  his  parts  and  talents  to 
the  redeeming  actions  of  this  world." 

And  so  began  the  awakening  of  Francois  Lagarre; 
and  so  began  his  ambition  and  his  peril. 

For,  as  he  passed  from  the  church,  the  Seigneur 
tou'^hed  him  on  the  shoulder  and  introduced  him  to 
his  English  grandniece,  come  on  a  visit  for  the  sum- 
mer, the  daughter  of  a  London  knight  bachellor.  She 
had  but  just  arrived,  and  she  was  feeling  that  first 
home-sickness  which  succeeds  transplanting.  The 
face  of  the  young  worker  in  stone  interested  her ;  the 
idea  of  it  all  was  romantic;  the  possibilities  of  the 
young  man's  life  opened  out  before  her.  Why  should 
not  she  give  him  his  real  start,  win  his  g  ratitude,  help 
him  to  his  fame,  and  then,  when  it  was  won,  hi  pointed 
out  as  a  discoverer  and  a  patron  ? 

All  these  things  flashed  through  her  mind  as  they 
were  introduced.  The  young  man  did  not  read  the 
look  in  her  eyes,  but  there  was  one  other  person  in  the 
crowd  about  the  church  steps  who  did  read  it,  whose 


142   THE  LANE  THAT  HAD  NO  TURNING 


heart  beat  furiously,  whose  foot  tapped  the  ground 
angrily — a  black-haired,  brown-eyed  farmer's  daugli- 
ter,  who  instantly  hated  the  yellow  hair  and  rosy  and 
golden  face  of  the  blue-eyed  London  lady ;  who  could, 
that  instant,  have  torn  the  silk  gown  from  her  graceful 
figure. 

She  was  not  disturbed  without  reason.  And  for  the 
moment,  even  when  she  heard  impertinent  and  in- 
credulous fellows  pooh-poohing  the  monument,  and 
sharpening  their  rather  dull  wits  upon  its  corners,  she 
did  not  open  her  lips,  when  otherwise  she  would  have 
spoken  her  mind  with  a  vengeance;  for  Jeanne  Mar- 
chand  had  a  reputation  for  spirit  and  temper,  and  she 
spared  no  one  when  her  blood  was  up.  She  had  a 
touch  of  the  vixen,  an  impetuous,  loving,  forceful 
mademoiselle,  in  marked  contrast  to  the  rather  ascetic 
Francois,  whose  ways  were  more  refined  than  his 
origin  might  seem  to  warrant. 

"  Sapr/.f "  said  Duclosse  the  mealman  of  the  monu- 
ment ;  "  it's  like  a  timber  of  cheese  stuck  up.  What's 
that  to  make  a  fuss  about  ?  " 

"  Fig  of  Eden,"  muttered  Jules  Marmotte,  with  one 
eye  on  Jeanne,  "  any  fool  could  saw  a  better-looking 
thing  out  of  ice !  " 

"  Pish,"  said  fat  Caroche  the  butcher,  "  that  Fran- 
■  Qois  has  a  rattle  in  his  capote.  He'd  spend  his  time  bet- 
ter chipping  bones  on  my  meat-block !  " 

But  Jeanne  could  not  bear  this — the  greasy  whop- 
ping butcher-man ! 

"  What !  what !  the  messy  stupid  Caroche,  who  can't 
write  his  name,"  she  said  in  a  fury,  "  the  sausage-potted 
Caroche,  who  doesn't  remember  that  Fran<;ois  La- 
garre  made  his  brother's  tombstone,  and  charged  him 
nothing  for  the  verses  he  wrote  for  it,  nor  for  the  Agnus 


A   WORKER   IN   STONE 


143 


Dei  he  carved  on  it !  No,  Caroche  does  not  remember 
his  brother  Baptiste  the  fighter,  as  brave  as  Caroche  is 
a  coward !  He  doesn't  remember  the  verse  on  Bap- 
tiste's  tombstone,  does  he?" 

Franqois  heard  this  speech,  and  his  eyes  lighted  ten- 
derly as  he  looked  at  Jeanne:  he  loved  this  fury  of 
defence  and  championship.  Some  one  in  the  crowd 
turned  to  him  and  asked  him  to  say  the  verses.  At  first 
he  would  not ;  but  when  Caroche  said  that  it  was  only 
his  fun,  that  he  meant  nothing  against  Francois,  the 
young  man  recited  the  words  slowly — an  epitaj  h  on 
one  who  was  little  better  than  a  prize-fij;hter,  a  splendid 
bully. 

Leaning  a  hand  against  the  white  shaft  of  the  Pa- 
triots' memory,  he  said : 

"  Blows  I  have  struck,  and  blows  a-many  taken, 
Wrestling  I've  fallen,  and  I've  rose  up  again  ; 

Mostly  I've  stood — 

I've  had  good  bone  and  blood  ; 
Others  went  down  though  fighting  might  and  main. 

Now  death  steps  in — 

Death  the  price  of  sin. 
The  fall  it  will  be  nis  ;  and  though  I  strive  and  strain, 
One  blow  will  close  my  eyes,  and  I  shall  never  waken." 

"  Good  enough  for  Baptiste !  "  said  Duclosse  the 
mealman. 

The  wave  of  feeling  was  now  altogether  with  Fran- 
cois, and  presently  he  walked  away  with  Jeanne 
Marchand  and  her  mother,  and  the  crowd  dispersed. 
Jeanne  was  very  happy  for  a  few  hours,  but  in  the  even- 
ing she  was  unhappy,  for  she  saw  Frangois  going  to- 
wards the  house  of  the  Seigneur;  and  during  many 
weeks  she  was  still  more  unhappy,  for  every  three  or 
four  days  she  saw  the  same  thing. 


IJ 


144   THE  LANE  THAT  HAD  NO  TURNING 


Meanwhile  Francois  worked  as  he  had  never  before 
worked  in  his  hfe.  Night  and  day  he  was  shut  in  his 
shop,  and  for  two  months  he  came  with  no  epitaphs 
for  the  Cure,  and  no  new  tombstones  were  set  up  in  the 
graveyard.  The  influence  of  the  lady  at  the  Seigneury 
was  upon  him,  and  he  himself  believed  it  was  for  his 
salvation.  She  had  told  him  of  great  pieces  of  sculp- 
ture she  had  seen,  had  sent  and  got  from  Ov'^bec  City, 
where  he  had  never  been,  pictures  of  some  of  the 
V  orld's  masterpieces  in  sculpture,  and  he  had  lost  him- 
self in  the  study  of  them  and  in  the  depths  of  the  girl's 
eyes.  She  meant  no  harm ;  the  man  interested  her 
beyond  what  was  reasonable  in  one  of  his  station  in 
life.     That-  was  all,  and  all  there  ever  was. 

Presently  people  began  to  gossip,  and  a  story  crept 
round  that,  in  a  new  shed  which  he  had  built  behind 
his  shop,  Frangois  was  chiselling  out  of  stone  the  nude 
figure  of  a  woman.  There  were  one  or  two  who  pro- 
fessed they  had  seen  it.  The  wildest  gossip  said  that 
the  figure  was  that  of  the  young  lady  at  the  Seigneury. 

Francois  saw  no  more  of  Jeanne  Marchand ;  he 
thought  of  her  sometimes,  but  that  was  all.  A  fever  of 
work  was  on  him.  Twice  she  came  to  the  shed  where 
he  laboured,  and  knocked  at  the  door.  The  first  time, 
he  asked  who  was  there.  When  phe  told  him  he 
opened  the  door  just  a  little  way,  smiled  at  her,  caught 
her  hand  and  pressed  it,  and,  w!'en  she  woula  have 
entered,  said,  "No,  no,  another  day,  Jeanne!"  and 
shut  the  door  in  her  face. 

She  almost  hated  him  because  he  had  looked  so 
happy.  Still  another  day  she  came  knocking.  She 
called  to  him,  and  this  time  he  opened  the  door  and 
admitted  her.  That  very  hour  she  had  heard  again 
the  story  cf  the  nude  stone  woman  in  the  shed,  and  her 


A   WORKER   IN    STONE 


145 


lieart  was  full  of  jealousy,  fury,  and  suspicion.  He 
was  very  quiet,  he  seemed  tired.  She  did  not  notice 
that.  Her  heart  had  throbbed  wildly  as  she  stepped 
inside  the  shed.  She  looked  round,  all  delirious  eager- 
ness for  the  nude  figure. 

There  it  was,  covered  up  with  a  great  canvas !  Yes, 
there  were  the  outlines  of  the  figure.  How  shapely  it 
seemed,  even  inside  the  canvas ! 

She  stepped  forward  without  a  word,  and  snatched 
at  the  covering.  He  swiftly  interposed  and  stopped 
her  hand. 

*'  I  will  see  it,"  she  said. 

"  Not  to-day,"  he  answered. 

"  I  tell  you  I  will !  "  She  wrenched  her  hand  free 
and  caught  at  the  canvas.  A  naked  foot  and  ankle 
showed.  He  pinioned  her  wrists  with  one  hand  and 
drew  her  towards  the  door,  determination  and  anger  in 
his  face. 

"  You  beast,  you  liar !  "  she  said.  "  You  beast ! 
beast !  beast !  " 

Then,  with  a  burst  of  angry  laughter,  she  opened  the 
door  herself.  "  You  ain't  fit  to  know,"  she  said ;  "  they 
told  the  truth  about  you !  Now  you  can  take  the  can- 
vas off  her.     Good-bye !  "     With  that  she  was  gone. 

The  following  day  was  Sunday.  Franqois  did  not 
attend  mass,  and  such  strange  scandalous  reports  had 
reached  the  Cure  that  he  was  both  disturbed  and  indig- 
nant. That  afternoon,  after  vespers  (which  Francois 
did  not  attend),  the  Cure  made  his  way  to  the  sculp- 
tor's workshop,  followed  by  a* number  of  parishioners. 

The  crowd  increased,  and  when  the  Cure  knocked  at 
the  door  it  seemed  as  if  half  the  viUage  was  there. 

The  chief  witness  against  Francois  had  been  Jeanne 
Marchand.  That  very  afternoon  she  had  told  the  Cure, 
10 


146   THE  LANE  THAT  HAD  NO  TURNING 


f 


with  indignation  and  bitterness,  that  there  was  no 
doubt  about  it ;  all  that  had  been  said  was  true. 

Francois,  with  wonder  and  some  confusion,  ad- 
mitted the  Cure.  When  M.  Fabre  demanded  that  he 
be  taken  to  the  new  workshop,  Franqois  led  the  way. 
The  crowd  pushed  after,  and  presently  the  place  was 
full.  A  hundred  eyes  were  fastened  upon  the  canvas- 
covered  statue,  which  had  been  the  means  of  the  young 
man's  undoing. 

Terrible  things  had  been  said — terrible  things  of 
Franqois,  and  of  the  girl  at  the  Seigneury.  They 
knew  the  girl  for  a  Protestant  and  an  Englishwoman, 
and  that  in  itself  was  a  sort  of  sin.  And  now  every  ear 
was  alert  to  hear  what  the  Cure  should  say,  what  de- 
nunciation should  come  from  his  lips  when  the  cover- 
ing was  removed.  For  that  it  should  be  removed  was 
the  determination  of  every  man  present.  Virtue  was 
at  its  supreme  height  in  Pontiac  that  day.  Lajeunesse 
the  blacksmith,  Muroc  the  charcoal-man,  and  twenty 
others  were  as  intent  upon  preserving  a  high  standard 
of  m^-ality,  by  force  of  arms,  as  if  another  Tarquin 
were  harbouring  shame  and  crime  in  this  cedar 
shed. 

The  whole  thing  came  home  to  Franqois  with  a 
choking  smothering  force.  Art,  now  in  its  very  birth 
in  his  heart  and  life,  was  to  be  garrotted.  He  had 
been  unconscious  of  all  the  wicked  things  said  about 
him  :  now  he  knew  all ! 

"  Remove  the  canvas  from  the  figure,"  said  the  Cure 
sternly.  Stubbornness  and  resetitment  filled  Franqois* 
breast.     He  did  not  stir. 

"  Do  you  oppose  the  command  of  the  Church  ? " 
said  the  Ct!re,  still  more  severely ;  "  remove  the  can- 
vas ! " 


A   WORKER   IN    STONE 


147 


e  was  no 


"  It  is  my  work — my  own :  my  idea,  my  stone,  and 
the  labour  of  my  hands,"  said  Franqois  doggedly. 

The  Cure  turned  to  Lajeunesse  and  made  a  motion 
towards  the  statue.  Lajeunesse,  with  a  burning  right- 
eous joy,  snatched  off  the  canvas.  There  was  one  in- 
stant of  confusion  in  the  faces  of  all — of  absolute 
silence.  Then  the  crowd  gasped.  The  Cure's  hat 
came  off,  and  every  other  hat  followed.  The  Cure 
made  the  sign  of  the  cross  upon  his  breast  and  fore- 
head, and  every  other  man,  woman,  and  child  present 
did  the  same.  Tlien  all  knelt,  savo  Francois  and  the 
Cure  himself. 

What  they  saw  was  a  statue  of  Christ,  a  beautiful  be- 
nign figure ;  barefooted,  with  a  girdle  about  his  waist : 
the  very  truth  and  semblance  of  a  man.  The  type  was 
strong  and  yet  delicate ;  vigorous  and  yet  refined ; 
crude  and  yet  noble ;  a  leader  of  men — the  God-Man, 
not  the  Man-God. 

After  a  moment's  silence  the  Cure  spoke.  "  Fran- 
cois, my  son,"  said  he,  *  wc  have  erred.  All  we  like 
sheep  have  gone  astray;  we  have  followed  each 
after  his  own  way,  but  God  hath  laid  on  Him  " — 
he  looked  towards  the  statue — "  the  iniquity  of  us 
all." 

Francois  stood  still  a  moment  gazing  at  the  Cure, 
doggedly,  bitterly;  then  he  turned  and  looked  scorn- 
fully at  the  crowd,  now  risen  to  their  feet  again. 
Among  them  was  a  girl  crying  as  if  her  heart  would 
break.  It  was  Jeanne  Marchand.  He  regarded  her 
coldly. 

"  You  were  so  ready  to  suspect,"  he  said. 

Then  he  turned  once  more  to  the  Cure.  "  I  meant 
it  is  my  gift  to  the  Church,  monsieur  le  Cure — to  Pon- 
tiac,  where  I  was  born  again.     I  waked  up  here  to 


148    THE  LANE  THAT  HAD  NO  TURNING 


what  I  might  do  in  sculpture,  and  you — you  all  were 
so  ready  to  suspect !     Take  it,  it  is  my  last  gift." 

He  went  to  the  statue,  touched  the  hands  of  it  lov- 
ingly, and  stooped  and  kissed  the  feet.  Then,  without 
more  words,  he  turned  and  left  the  shed  and  the  house. 

Pouring  out  into  the  street,  the  people  watched  him 
cross  the  bridge  that  led  into  another  parish — and  into 
another  world :  for  from  that  hour  Franqois  Lagarrc 
was  never  seen  in  Pontiac. 

The  statue  that  he  made  stands  upon  a  little  hill 
above  the  valley  where  the  beaters  of  flax  come  in  the 
autumn,  through  which  the  woodsmen  pass  in  winter 
and  in  spring.  But  Francois  Lagarre,  under  another 
name,  works  in  another  land. 

While  the  Cure  lived  he  heard  of  him  and  of  his 
fame  now  and  then,  and  to  the  day  of  his  death  he 
always  prayed  for  him.  He  was  wont  to  say  to  the 
little  Avocat  whenever  Francois'  name  was  mentioned  : 

"  The  spirit  of  a  man  will  support  him,  but  a 
wounded  spirit  who  can  bear  f  " 


JRNING 

oil  all  were 

rift." 

:1s  of  it  lov- 
en,  without 
1  the  house. 
'Etched  hiiii 
:i — and  into 
Dis  Lagarrc 

a  little  hill 
:ome  in  the 
)S  in  winter 
der  another 

and  of  his 
is  death  he 

say  to  the 
mentioned : 
«'w,    but  a 


THE  TRAGIC  COMEDY  OF 
ANNETTE 


'  ..  1 


% 


$ 


THE   TRAGIC   COMEDY   OF   ANNETTE 


THE  chest  of  drawers,  the  bed,  the  bedding,  the 
pieces  of  linen  and  the  pile  of  yarn  had  been  ready 
for  many  months.  Annette  had  made  inventory  of  them 
every  day  since  the  dot  was  complete — at  first  with  a 
great  deal  of  pride,  after  a  time  more  shyly  and  wist- 
fully :  Benoit  did  not  come.  He  had  said  he  would  be 
down  with  the  first  drive  of  logs  In  the  summer,  and  at 
the  little  church  of  St.  Saviour  they  would  settle  every- 
thing and  get  the  Cure's  blessinL;.  Almost  anybody 
would  have  believed  in  Benoit.  He  had  the  brightest 
scarf,  the  merriest  laugh,  the  quickest  eyes,  and  the 
blackest  head  in  Pontiac;  and  no  one  among  the  river 
drivers  could  sing  like  him.  That  was,  he  said  gaily, 
because  his  earrings  were  gold,  and  not  brass  like  those 
of  his  comrades.  Thus  Benoit  was  a  little  vain,  and 
something  more;  but  old  ladies  such  as  the  Little 
Chemist's  wife  said  he  was  galant.  Probably  only 
Medallion,  the  auctioneer,  and  the  Cure  did  not  lose 
themselves  in  the  general  adm.iration;  they  thought  he 
was  to  Annette  like  a  gas-jet  to  a  holy  candle. 

Annette  was  the  youngest  of  twelve,  and  one  of  a 
family  of  thirty — for  some  of  her  married  brothers  and 
sisters  and  their  children  lived  in  her  father's  long 
white  house  by  the  river.  When  Benoit  failed  to  come 
in  the  spring,  they  showed  their  pity  for  her  by  abusing 
him ;  and  when  she  pleaded  for  him  they  said  things 
which  had  an  edge.     They  ended  by  offering  to  marry 


152    THE  LANE  THAT  HAD  NO  TURNING 

her  to  Farette,  the  old  miller,  to  whom  they  owed 
money  for  flour.  They  brought  Farette  to  the  house 
at  last,  and  she  v/as  patient  while  he  ogled  her,  and 
smoked  his  strong  tabac,  and  tried  to  sing.  She  was 
kind  to  him,  and  said  nothing  until,  one  day,  urged  by 
her  brother  Solime,  he  mumbled  the  childish  chanson 
Benoit  sang  the  day  he  left,  as  he  passed  their  house 
going  up  the  river — 


"  High  in  a  nest  of  the  tam'rac  tree, 

Swing  under,  so  free,  and  swing  over  ; 
Swing  under  the  sun  and  swing  over  the  world, 
My  snow-bird,  my  gay  little  lover — 

My  gay  little  lover,  (/ofiy  don  /     .     .     .     don,  don  ! 


■..-*'^ 


■  1 


"  When  the  winter  is  done  I  will  come  back  home, 
To  the  nest  swinging  under  and  over. 
Swinging  under  and  over  and  waiting  for  me. 
Your  rover,  my  snow-bird,  your  rover — 

Your  lover  and  rover,  don,  don!     .     .     .     don,  don!" 

It  was  all  very  well  in  the  mouth  of  the  sprightly, 
sentimental  Benoit;  it  was  hateful  foolishness  in 
Farette.  Annette  now  came  to  her  feet  suddenly,  her 
pale  face  showing  defiance,  and  her  big  brown  eyes 
flicking  anger.  She  walked  up  to  the  miller  and  said: 
"  You  are  old  and  ugly  and  a  fool !  But  I  do  not  hate 
you ;  I  hate  Solime,  my  brother,  for  bringing  you  here, 
There  is  the  bill  for  the  flour  ?  Well,  I  will  pay  it  my- 
self— and  you  can  go  as  soon  as  you  like !  " 

Then  she  put  on  her  coat  and  capote  and  mittens, 
and  went  to  the  door.  "  Where  are  you  going,  Ma'm'- 
selle  ?  "  cried  Solime,  iii  high  rage. 

"  I  am  going  to  M'sieu'  Medallion,"  she  said. 

Hard  profane  words  followed  her,  but  she  ran,  and 


f 

I 


aloi 

dm 

gre 

a  ni 

asic 

sol 

f.)r 

The 


■4\  t|  • 


/ 


THE   TRAGIC   COMEDY   OF   ANNETTE  153 

never  stopped  till  she  came  to  Medallion's  house.  He 
was  not  there.     She  found  him  at  the  Little  Chen'ist's. 

That  night  a  pony  and  cart  took  away  from  the  house 
of  Annette's  father  the  chest  of  drawers,  the  bed,  the 
bedding,  the  pieces  of  linen,  and  the  pile  of  yarn  which 
had  been  made  ready  so  long  against  Benoit's  coming. 
Medallion  had  said  he  could  sell  them  at  once,  and  he 
gave  her  the  money  that  night;  but  this  was  after  he 
had  had  a  talk  with  the  Cure,  to  whom  Annette  had 
told  all.  Medallion  said  he  had  been  able  to  sell  the 
things  at  once,  but  he  did  not  tell  her  that  they  were 
stored  in  a  loft  of  th'^  Little  Chemist's  house,  and  that 
the  Little  Chemist's  wife  had  wept  over  them  and  car- 
ried the  case  to  the  shrine  of  the  Blessed  Virgin. 

It  did  not  matter  that  the  father  and  brothers 
stormed.  Annette  w^as  firm ;  the  t^ot  was  hers,  and  she 
would  do  as  she  M'ished.  She  carried  the  money  to 
the  miller.  He  took  it  grimly,  and  gave  her  a  receipt, 
grossly  mis-spelled,  and,  as  she  was  about  to  go, 
brought  his  fist  heavily  down  on  his  leg  and  said:  "Mow 
Dieu!  It  is  brave — it  is  grand — it  is  an  angel."  Then 
he  chuckled:  "  So,  so!  It  was  true!  I  am  old,  ugly, 
and  a  fool.  Eh,  well!  I  have  my  money."  Then  he 
took  to  counting  it  over  in  his  hand,  forgetting  her, 
and  she  left  him  growling  gleefully  over  it. 

She  had  not  a  happy  life,  but  her  people  left  her 
alone,  for  the  Cure  had  said  stern  things  to  them.  All 
during  the  winter  she  went  out  fishing  every  day  at  a 
great  hole  in  the  ice — bitter  cold  work,  and  fit  only  fcr 
a  man ;  but  she  caught  many  fish,  and  little  by  little  laid 
aside  pennies  to  bliy  things  to  replace  what  she  had 
sold.  It  had  been  a  hard  trial  to  her  to  sell  them.  But 
ft-)r  the  kind-hearted  Cure  she  would  have  repined. 
The  worst  thing  happened,  however,  when  the  ring 


154   THE  LANE  THAT  HAD  NO  TURNING 


Benoit  had  given  her  dropped  from  her  thin  finger  into 
the  water  where  she  was  fishing.  Then  a  shadow 
descended  on  her,  and  she  grew  almost  unearthly  in 
the  anxious  patience  of  her  face.  The  Little  Chemist's 
wife  declared  that  the  look  was  death.  Perhaps  it 
would  have  been  if  Medallion  had  not  sent  a  lad  down 
to  the  bottom  of  the  river  and  got  the  ring.  He  gave  it 
to  the  Cure,  who  put  it  on  her  finger  one  day  after  con- 
fession. Then  she  brightened,  and  waited  on  and  on 
patiently. 

She  waited  for  seven  years.  Then  the  deceitful 
Benoit  came  pensively  back  to  her,  a  cripple  from  a 
timber  accident.  She  believed  what  he  told  her :  and 
that  was  where  her  comedy  ended  and  her  tragedy 
began. 


JRNING 

1  finger  into 
1  a  shadow 
inearthly  in 
le  Chemist's 

Perhaps  it 
;  a  lad  down 

He  gave  it 
ly  after  con- 
1  on  and  on 


he  deceitful 
pple  from  a 
)ld  her:  and 
her  tragedy 


THE  MARRIAGE  OF  THE 
MILLER 


>\\- 


]V 

o; 

fc 

al 

w 

th 

T 

m 

pi 

hi 

H 

tn 

ca 

se 

se; 


THE   MARRIAGE   OF   THE   MILLER 


MEDALLION  put  it  into  his  head  on  the  day  that 
Benoit  and  Annette  were  married.  "  See," 
said  Medallion,  "  Annette  wouldn't  have  you — and 
quite  right — and  she  took  what  was  left  of  that  Benoit, 
who'll  laugh  at  you  over  his  mush-and-milk." 

"  Benoit  will  want  flour  some  day,  with  no  money." 
The  old  man  chuckled  and  rubbed  his  hands. 

"  That's  nothing ;  he  has  the  girl — an  angel !  " 

"  Good  enough !  That  is  what  I  said  of  her — an 
angel ! " 

"  Get  married  yourself,  Farette." 

For  reply  Farette  thrust  a  bag  of  native  tabac  into 
Medallion's  hands.  Then  they  went  over  the  names 
of  the  girls  in  the  village.  Medallion  objected  to  those 
for  whom  he  wished  a  better  future,  but  they  decided 
at  last  on  Julie  Lachance,  who.  Medallion  thought, 
would  in  time  profoundly  increase  Farette's  respect  for 
the  memory  of  his  first  wife ;  for  Julie  was  not  an  angel. 
Then  the  details  were  ponderously  thought  out  by  the 
miller,  and  ponderously  acted  upon,  with  the  dry  ap- 
proval of  Medallion,  who  dared  not  tell  the  Cure  of 
his  complicity,  though  he  was  without  compunction. 
He  lad  a  sense  of  humour,  and  knew  there  could  be  no 
tragedy  in  the  thing — for  Julie.  But  the  miller  was  a 
careful  man  and  original  in  his  methods.  He  still  pos- 
sessed the  wardrobe  of  the  first  wife,  carefully  pre- 
served  by   his   sister,   even   to   the   wonderful    grey 


158    THE  LANE  THAT  HAD  NO  TURNING 


watered-poplin  which  had  been  her  wedding-dress. 
These  he  had  taken  out,  shaken  free  of  cayenne,  cam- 
phor, and  lavender,  and  sent  upon  the  back  of  Parpon, 
the  dwarf,  to  the  house  where  Julie  lodged  (sne  was  an 
orphan),  following  himself  with  a  statement  on  brown 
paper,  showing  the  extent  of  his  wealth,  and  a  parcel  of 
very  ^ne  flo  ir  ^rom  the  new  stones  in  his  ,iu:i.  All 
WIS  "^j  r<*ad  Jtt,  :  nd  then  he  made  a  speech,  describing 
his  virfi'f -,  H'jd  condoning  his  one  offence  of  age  by 
assuring  ,.r  t-^i;  every  tooth  in  his  head  was  sound. 
This  was  merely  ihe  concession  of  politeness,  for  he 
thought  his  offer  handsome. 

Julie  slyly  eyed  the  wardrobe  and  as  slyly  smiled,  and 
then,  imitating  Parette's  manner — though  Farette 
could  not  see  it,  and  Parpon  spluttered  with  laughter- 
said: 

"  M'sieu',  you  are  a  great  man.  The  grey  poplin  is 
noble,  also  the  flour,  and  the  writing  on  the  brown 
paper.  M'sieu',  v'-.u  go  to  mass,  and  all  your  teeth 
are  sound ;  you  ha  :  a  dog-churn,  also  three  feather- 
beds,  and  five  rag  carpets ;  you  have  sat  on  the  grand 
jury.  M'sieu',  I  have  a  dot;  I  accept  you.  M'sieu',  I 
will  keep  the  brown  paper,  and  the  grey  poplin,  and  the 
flour."    Then  with  a  grave  elaborate  bow,  "  M'sieu'  ! " 

That  was  the  beginning  and  end  of  the  courtship. 
For  though  Farette  came  every  Sunday  evening  and 
smoked  by  the  fire,  and  looked  at  Julie  as  she  arranged 
the  details  of  her  dowry,  he  only  chucklec',  and  now 
and  again  struck  his  thigh  and  said  ■ 

"  Mon  Dieii,  the  ankle,  the  eye,  the  good  child,  Julie, 
there!" 

Then  he  would  fall  to  thinking  and  chuckling  again. 
One  day  he  asked  her  to  make  him  some  potato-cakes 
of  the  flour  he  had  given  her.     Her  answer  was  a 


THE    MARRIAGE    OF   THE    MILLER  159 


igh    Farette 


rey  poplin  is 
1  the  brown 
1  your  teeth 
iree  feather- 
)n  the  grand 
.  M'sieu',  I 
plin,  and  the 
"  M'sieu'  ! " 
le  courtship, 
evening  and 
she  arranged 
ec'    and  now 

child,  Julie, 

:kling  again, 
potato-cakes    |:i 
iswer  was  a 


catastrophe.  She  rould  not  cook ;  she  was  even  igno- 
rant of  butternnlk-puddinj^.  He  went  away  over- 
vvlielmed,  bat  came  back  some  days  afterwards  and 
made  aiiother  speech.  Hj  had  laid  his  plans  before 
Medallion,  who  approved  of  them.  He  prefaced  the 
speech  bv  placing  the  blank  marriage  certificate  on  the 
table.  Then  he  said  that  his  first  wife  was  such  a  cook 
tha*"  when  she  died  he  paid  for  an  extra  mass  and 
twelve  very  fine  candles.  He  called  upon  Parpon  to 
endorse  liis  words,  and  Parpon  nodded  to  all  he  said, 
but,  catching  Julie's  eye,  went  of¥  into  gurgl  «  *" 
laugliter,  which  he  pretended  were  tears,  by  sn:  ^die 
ir.g  his  face  in  his  capote.  "  Ma'rn'selle,"  s<.  u  the 
miller,  "  I  have  thought.  Some  men  go  to  the  A'<^'  at 
or  the  Cure  with  great  things ;  but  I  have  bc^n  a  pil- 
grimage, I  have  sat  on  the  grand  jury.  There, 
Ma'rn'selle !  "  His  chest  vSwelled,  he  blew  out  his 
checks,  he  pulled  Parpon's  ear  as  Napoleon  pulled 
Murat's.  "  Ma'rn'selle,  allons!  Babette,  the  sister  of 
my  first  wife — ah !  she  is  a  great  cook  also — well,  she 
was  pouring  into  my  plate  the  soup — there  is  nothing 
like  pea-soup  v.'ith  a  fine  lump  of  pork,  and  thick  mo- 
lasses for  the  buckwheat  cakes.  Ma'rn'selle,  allons! 
Just  then  I  thought.  It  is  very  good  :  you  shall  see ; 
you  shall  learn  how  to  cook.  Babette  will  teach  you. 
Babette  said  many  things.  I  got  mad  and  spilt  the 
soup.  Ma'm'selle — eh,  holy!  what  a  turn  has  your 
waist !  " 

At  length  he  made  it  clear  to  her  what  his  plans 
were,  and  to  each  and  all  she  consented ;  but  when  he 
had  gone  she  sat  and  laughed  till  she  cried,  and  for  the 
hundredth  time  took  out  the  brown  paper  and  studied 
the  list  of  Farette's  worldly  possessions. 

The  v/edding-day  came.  Julie  performed  her  last  real 


i6o   THE  LANE  THAT  HAD  NO  TURNING 


act  of  renunciation  when,  in  spite  of  the  protests  of  her 
friends,  she  wore  the  grey  vvatcred-popHn,  made  mod- 
ern by  her  own  hands.  The  wedding-day  was  the  an- 
niversary of  Farette's  first  marriage,  and  the  Cure 
faltered  in  the  exhortation  when  he  saw  that  Farettc 
was  dressed  in  complete  mourning,  even  to  the  crape 
hat-streamers,  as  he  said,  out  of  respect  for  the  memory 
of  his  first  wife,  and  as  a  kind  of  tribute  to  his  second. 
At  the  wedding-breakfast,  where  Medallion  and 
Parpon  were  in  high  glee,  Farette  announced  that  he 
would  take  the  honeymoon  himself,  and  leave  his  wife 
to  learn  cooking  from  old  Babette. 

So  he  went  away  alone  cheerfully,  with  hymeneal  rice 
falling  in  showers  on  his  mourning  garments;  and  his 
new  wife  was  as  cheerful  as  he,  and  threw  rice  also. 

She  learned  how  to  cook,  and  in  time  Farette  learned 
that  he  had  his  one  true  inspiration  when  he  wore 
mourning  at  his  second  marriage. 


URNING 

•otcsts  of  her 
,  made  mod- 
'  was  the  an- 
id  the  Cure 
that  Farcttc 
to  the  crape 
the  memory 
D  his  second, 
dallion  and 
need  that  he 
:^ave  his  wife 


ymeneal  rice 
ints ;  and  his 
rice  also, 
rette  learned 
len  he  wore 


MATHURIN 


.'li 


I     ' 


■,i*..A 


MATHURIN 


T^IIE  tale  was  told  to  me  in  the  little  valley  beneath 
Dalgrothe  Mountain  one  September  morning. 
I'^ar  and  near  one  could  see  the  swinging  of  the  flail, 
and  the  laughter  of  a  ripe  summer  was  upon  the  land. 
There  was  a  little  Calvary  down  by  the  river-side, 
where  the  flax-beaters  used  to  say  their  prayers  in  the 
intervals  of  their  work ;  and  it  was  just  at  the  foot  of 
tliis  that  Angele  Rouvier,  having  finished  her  prayer, 
put  her  rosary  in  her  pocket,  wiped  her  eyes  with  the 
hem  of  her  petticoat,  and  said  to  me : 

"  Ah,  dat  poor  Mathurin !  I  wipe  my  tears  for 
him!" 

*'  Tell  me  all  about  him, won't  you,  Madame  Angele? 
I  v/ant  to  hear  you  tell  it,"  I  added  hastily,  for  I  saw 
that  she  would  despise  me  if  I  showed  ignorance  of 
Mathurin's  story.  Her  sympathy  with  Mathurin's 
memory  was  real,  but  her  pleasure  at  the  compliment 
I  paid  her  was  also  real. 

"  Ah !  It  was  ver'  long  time  ago — yes.  My  gran'- 
mudder  she  remember  dat  Mathurin  ver'  well.  He  is 
not  ver'  big  man.  He  has  a  face — oh !  not  ver' 
handsome, '  it  so  more  handsome  as  yours — non!  His 
clothes,  dey  lang  on  him  all  loose;  his  hair,  it  is  all 
some  grey,  and  it  blow  about  him  head.  He  is  clean 
to  de  face,  no  beard — no,  nosing  like  dat.  But  his  eye ; 
la!  M'sieu',  his  eye!  It  is  like  a  coal  which  you  blow 
in  your  hand,  whew ! — all  bright.     My  gran'mudder, 


mmm 


\4 


\   :■'• 


if. 


164    THE  LANE  THAT  HAD  NO  TURNING 

sHe  say,  Vot/a,  you  can  light  your  pipe  with  de  eyes 
of  dat  Mathuriu!  She  know.  She  say  dat  M'sieu 
Mathurin's  eyes  dey  shine  in  de  dark.  My  gran'- 
fadder  he  say  he  not  need  any  Hghts  on  his  carriole 
when  Mathurin  ride  with  him  in  de  dark. 

'*  Ah,  sure !  it  is  ver'  true  what  I  tell  you  all  de  time. 
If  you  cut  off  Mathurin  at  de  chin,  all  de  way  up, 
you  will  say  de  top  of  him  it  is  a  priest.  All  de  way 
down  from  his  neck,  oh,  he  is  just  no  better  as  yoursel' 
or  my  Jean — non!  He  is  a  ver'  good  man.  Only  one 
bad  ting  he  do.  Dat  is  why  I  pray  for  him ;  dat  is  why 
everybody  pray  for  him — only  one  bad  ting.  Saprisfi! 
If  I  have  only  one  ting  to  say  God-have-mercy  for,  I 
tink  dat  ver'  good,  I  do  my  penance  happy.  Well,  dat 
Mathurin  him  use  to  teach  de  school.  De  Cure  he 
ver'  fond  of  him.  All  de  leetla  children,  boys  and 
girls,  dey  all  say,  *  C'est  bon  MafJmrin! '  He  is  not 
ver'  cross — 7W7i!  Hq  have  no  wife,  no  child;  jcs  live 
by  himself  all  alone.  But  he  is  ver'  good  friends  with 
everybody  in  Pontiac.  When  he  go  'long  de  street, 
everybody  say,  '  Ah,  derc  go  de  good  Mathurin ! " 
He  laugh,  he  tell  story,  he  smoke  leetla  tabac,  he  take 
leetla  white  wine  behin'  de  door ;  dat  is  nosing — non! 

"  He  have  in  de  parish  five,  ten,  twenty  children  all 
call  Mathurin ;  he  is  godfadder  with  dem — yes.  So 
he  go  about  with  plenty  of  sugar  and  sticks  of  candy 
in  his  pocket.  He  never  forget  once  de  age  of  every 
leetla  child  dat  call  him  godfadder.  He  have  a  brain 
dat  work  like  a  clock.  My  gran'fadder  he  say  dat 
Mathurin  have  a  machine  in  his  head.  It  make  de 
words.  Make  de  thoughts,  make  de  fine  speech  like 
de  Cure,  make  de  gran*  poetry — oh,  yes ! 

"  When  de  King  of  Englan'  go  to  sit  on  de  throne, 
Mathurin  write  ver'  nice  verse  to  him.     And  bv-and-by 


I 


JRNING 


MATHURIN 


165 


dth  de  eyes 

clat  M'sieu 

My  gran'- 

his  carriole 

all  de  time, 
de  way  up, 
All  de  way 
r  as  yoursel' 
.     Only  one 
1 ;  dat  is  why 
g".    Sapristi! 
mercy  for,  I 
'.     Well,  dat 
De  Cure  he 
n,  boys  and 
He  is  not 
liild ;  jes  live 
friends  with 
\g  de  street, 
Mathurin ! " 
bac,  he  take 
)sing — non! 
children  all 
11 — yes.     So 
ks  of  candy 
ige  of  every 
lave  a  brain 
he  say  dat 
It  make  de 
speech  like 

n  de  throne, 
id  bv-and-by 


m 


i 


dcre  come  to  Mathurin  a  letter — vot/^,  dat  is  a  letter ! 
It  have  one,  two,  three,  twenty  seals ;  and  de  King  he 
say  to  Mathurin,  *  Mrrci  millc  fois,  M'sicu\  You  are 
ver'  polite.  I  tank  you.  I  will  keep  your  verses  to 
tell  me  dat  my  French  subjects  are  all  loyal  like  M. 
Mathurin.'  Dat  is  ver'  nice,  but  Mathurin  is  not 
proud — non!     He  write  six  verses  for  my  gran'mudder 

licin!    Dat  is  someting.     He  write  two  verses  for  de 

King  of  Englan'  and  he  write  six  verses  for  my  gran'- 
mudder— you  see !  He  go  on  so,  dis  week,  dat  week, 
dis  year,  dat  year,  all  de  time. 

"  Well,  by-and-by  dere  is  trouble  in  Pontiac.  It  is 
ver'  great  trouble.  You  see  dere  is  a  fight  'gainst  de 
King  of  Englan',  and  dat  is  too  bad.  It  is  not  his 
fault ;  he  is  ver'  nice  man ;  it  is  de  bad  men  who  make 
de  laws  for  de  King  in  Quebec,  Well,  one  day  all  over 
de  country  everybody  take  him  gun,  and  de  leetla 
bullets,  and  say,  I  will  fight  de  soldier  of  de  King  of 
Englan' — like  dat !  Ver'  well,  dere  was  twenty  men  in 
Pontiac,  ver'  nice  men — you  will  find  de  names  cut  in 
a  stone  on  de  church ;  and  den,  tree  times  as  big,  you 
will  find  Mathurin's  name.  Aii,  dat  is  de  ting !  You 
see,  dat  rebellion  you  English  call  it,  we  call  it  de 
War  of  de  Patriot — de  first  War  of  de  Patriot,  not  de 
second — well,  call  it  what  you  like,  quelle  difference? 
The  King  of  Englan'  smash  him  Patriot  War  all  to 
pieces.  Den  dere  is  ten  men  of  de  twenty  come  back 
to  Pontiac  ver'  sorry.  Dey  are  not  happy,  nobody  are 
happy!  All  de  wives,  dey  cry  ;  all  de  children,  u*^y  are 
afraid !  Some  people  say,  What  fools  you  are  ;  others 
say,  You  are  no  good ;  but  everybody  in  him  heart  is 
ver'  sorrv  all  de  time. 

'*  Ver'  well,  by-and-by  dere  come  to  Pontiac  what 
you  call  a  colonel  with  a  dozen  men — what  for,  you 


i66   THE  LANE  THAT  HAD  NO  TURNING 


tink  ?  To  try  cle  patriots.  He  will  stan'  dem  against 
de  wall  and  shoot  dem  to  death — kill  dem  dead! 
When  dey  come,  de  Cure  he  is  not  in  Pontiac — non,  not 
dat  day ;  he  is  gone  to  anudder  village.  The  English 
soldier  he  has  de  ten  men  drew  up  before  de  church. 
All  de  children  and  all  de  wives  dey  cry  and  cry,  and 
dey  feel  so  bad.  Certainlee,  it  is  a  pity.  But  de 
English  soldier  he  say  he  will  march  dem  ofif  to  Que- 
bec, and  everybody  know  dat  is  de  end  of  de  patriots. 

"  All  at  once  de  colonel's  horse  it  grow  ver'  wild, 
it  rise  up  high  and  dance  on  him  hind  feet,  and— 
voila!  he  topple  him  over  backwards,  and  de  horse 
fall  on  de  colonel  and  smaish  him — smaish  him  till  he 
go  to  die.  Ver'  well ;  de  colonel,  what  does  he  do? 
Dey  lay  him  on  de  steps  of  de  church.  Den  he  say, 
*  Bring  me  a  priest,  quick,  for  I  go  to  die ! '  Nobody 
answer.  De  colonel  he  say,  *  I  have  a  hundred  sins 
all  on  my  mind  ;  dey  are  on  my  heart  like  a  hill.  Britio; 
to  me  de  priest ! ' — he  groan  like  dat.  Nobody  speak 
at  first ;  den  somebody  say  de  priest  is  not  here.  '  Find 
me  a  priest,'  say  de  colonel ;  '  find  me  a  priest.'  For 
he  tink  de  priest  will  not  come,  becos  he  go  to  kill  de 
patriots.  *  Bring  me  a  priest,'  he  say  again,  '  and  all 
de  ten  shall  go  free ! '  He  say  it  over  and  over.  He 
is  smaish  to  pieces,  but  h.'s  head  it  is  all  right.  All  at 
once  de  doors  of  de  church  open  behin'  him — what 
you  tink?  Everybody's  her.rt  it  stan'  still,  for  dere  is 
Mathurin  dress  as  de  priest,  with  a  leetla  boy  to  swinij 
de  censer.  Everybody  say  to  himself,  What  is  dis? 
Mathurin  is  dress  as  de  priest — ah  !  dat  is  a  sin.  It  is 
what  you  call  blaspeme. 

"  The  English  soldier  he  look  \vp  at  Mathurin  ami 
sav,  *  Ah,  a  priest  at  last!  ah,  m'sieu'  le  Cure,  comfort 
me!' 


A 


URNING 


MATHURIN 


167 


dem  against 
dem   dead ! 
iac — non,  not 
The  English 
e  de  church. 
and  cry,  and 
ity.     But  de 
1  off  to  Que- 
if  de  patriots. 
DW  ver'  wild, 
1  feet,  and— 
ind  de  horse 
sh  him  till  he 
does  he  do? 
Den  he  say, 
e ! '     Nobody 
hundred  sins 
a  hill.     Bring 
^Jobody  speak 
t  here.    *  Find 
priest.'     For 
go  to  kill  dc 
gain,  '  and  all 
.nd  over.    He 
right.     All  at 
n'  him — what 
ill,  for  dere  is 
boy  to  swin.c; 
Wiiat  is  dis^ 
is  a  sin.    It  is 


"  Mathurin  look  down  on  him  and  say,  *  M'sieu',  it 
is  for  you  to  confess  your  sins,  and  to  have  de  office 
of  de  Church.  But  first,  as  you  have  promise  just  now, 
you  must  give  up  dese  poor  men,  who  have  fight  for 
what  dey  tink  is  right.  You  will  let  dem  go  free  dis 
niomcn' ! ' 

"  '  Yes,  yes,'  say  de  English  colonel ;  '  dey  shall  go 
free.     Only  give  me  de  help  of  de  Church  at  my  last ! ' 

"  Mathurin  turn  to  de  other  soldiers  and  say,  *  Un- 
loose de  men.' 

"  De  colonel  nod  his  head  and  say,  *  Unloose  de 
men.'  Den  de  men  are  unloose,  and  dey  all  go  away, 
for  Mathurin  tell  dem  to  go  quick. 

"  Everybody  is  ver'  'fraid  becos'  of  what  Ma*^hurin 
do.  Mathurin  he  say  to  de  soldiers,  '  Lift  him  up  and 
bring  him  in  de  church.'  Dey  bring  him  up  to  de 
steps  of  de  altar.  Mathurin  look  at  de  man  for  a  while, 
and  it  seem  as  if  he  cannot  speak  to  him ;  but  de  colonel 
say,  '  I  have  give  you  my  word.  Give  me  comfort  of 
de  Church  before  I  die.'  He  is  in  ver'  great  pain,  so 
Mathurin  he  turn  roun'  to  everybody  dat  stan'  by,  and 
tell  dem  to  say  de  prayers  for  de  sick.  Everybody  get 
him  down  on  iiis  knees  and  say  de  prayer.  Everybody 
say:  'Lord  have  mercy.  Spare  hiiUy  O  Lord;  de- 
liver  him.  O  Lord,  from  Thy  wrath  !  '  And  Mathurin 
he  pray  all  de  same  as  a  priest,  ver'  soft  and  gentle. 
He  pray  on  and  on,  and  de  face  of  de  English  soldier 
it  get  ver'  quiet  and  still,  and  de  tear  drop  down  his 
cheek.  And  just  as  Mathurin  say  at  de  last  his  sins 
dey  are  forgive,  he  die.  Den  ]\Tathurin,  as  he  go 
away  to  take  off  his  robes,  he  sav  to  himself,  *  Miserere 
met  Dens  !  miserere  met  Dens  !  ' 

"  So  dat  is  de  ting  dat  Mathurin  do  to  save  de 
patriots  from  de  bullets.     Ver'  well,  dc  men  dey  go 


i68    THE  LANE  THAT  HAD  NO  TURNING 


■'I ,  I 


free,  and  when  de  Governor  at  Quebec  he  hear  de 
truth,  he  say  it  is  all  right.  Also  de  English  soldier 
die  in  peace  and  happy,  becos'  he  tink  his  sins  are  for- 
give. But  den — dcre  is  Mathurin  and  his  sin  to  pre- 
tend he  is  a  priest !  The  Cure  he  come  back,  and  dcre 
is  a  great  trouble. 

'  Mathurin  he  is  ver'  quiet  and  still.  Nobody  come 
near  him  in  him  house ;  nobody  go  near  to  de  school. 
But  he  sit  alone  all  day  in  de  school,  and  he  work 
on  de  blackboar'  and  he  write  on  de  slate ;  but  dcre 
is  no  child  come,  becos'  de  Cure  has  forbid  any  one  to 
speak  to  Mathurin.  Not  till  de  next  Sunday,  den  dc 
Cure  send  for  Mathurin  to  come  to  de  church. 
Mathurin  come  to  de  steps  of  de  altar ;  den  de  Cure  say 
to  him : 

"  '  Mathurin,  you  have  sin  a  great  sin.  If  it  was  two 
hunderd  years  ago  you  would  be  put  to  death  for  dat.' 

"  Mathurin  he  say  ver'  soft,  '  Dat  is  no  matter,  I 
am  ready  to  die  now.  I  did  it  to  save  de  fadders  of  de 
children  and  de  husbands  of  de  wives.  I  did  it  to 
make  a  poor  sinner  happy  as  he  go  from  de  world. 
De  sin  is  mine ! ' 

"  Den  de  Cure  he  say,  '  De  men  are  free,  dat  is 
good ;  de  wives  have  dere  husbands  and  de  children 
dere  fathers.  Also  de  man  who  confess  his  sins — de 
English  soldier — to  whom  you  say  de  words  of  a  priest 
of  God,  he  is  forgive.  De  Spirit  of  God  it  was  upon 
him  when  he  die,  becos'  you  speak  in  de  name  of  de 
Church.  But  for  ^ou,  blasphemer,  who  take  upon  you 
de  holy  ting,  you  shall  suffer !  For  penance,  all  your 
life  you  shall  teach  a  chile  no  more ! ' 

"  Ah,  m'sieu'  le  Cure  he  know  dat  is  de  greatest 
penance  f)r  de  poor  Mathurin!  Den  he  set  him 
other  tiags  to  do;  and  every  month  for  a  whole  year 


.V 


MATHURIN 


169 


[f  it  was  two 
;ath  for  dat.' 
10  matter,  I 
adders  of  de 
I  did  it  to 
n  de  world. 

free,  dat  is 
de  children 
his  sins — de 
Is  of  a  priest 
it  was  upon 
name  of  de 
ke  upon  you 
nee,  all  your 

de  greatest 

he   set  him 

I  whole  year 


Mathurin  come  on  his  knees  all  de  way  to  de  church, 
but  de  Cure  say,  *  Not  yet  are  you  forgive.'  At  de  end 
of  de  year  Alathurin  he  look  so  thin,  so  white,  you  can 
blow  through  him.  Every  day  he  go  to  him  school 
and  write  on  de  blackboar',  and  mark  on  de  slate,  and 
call  de  roll  of  de  school.  But  dere  is  no  answer,  for 
dcre  is  no  chile.  But  all  de  time  de  wives  of  de  men 
dat  he  have  save,  and  de  chil'ren,  dey  pray  for  him. 
And  by-and-by  all  de  village  pray  for  him,  so  sorry. 

"  It  is  so  for  two  years ;  and  den  dey  say  dat 
Mathurin  he  go  to  die.  He  cannot  come  on  his  knees 
to  de  church ;  and  de  men  whose  life  he  save,  dey  come 
to  de  Cure  and  ask  him  to  take  de  penance  from 
Mathurin.  De  Cure  say, '  Wait  till  nex'  Sunday.'  So 
nex'  Sunday  Mathurin  is  carry  to  de  church — he  is 
too  weak  to  walk  on  his  knees.  De  Cure  he  stan'  at 
de  altar,  and  he  read  a  letter  from  de  Pope,  which  say 
dat  Mathurin  his  penance  is  over,  and  he  is  forgive; 
dat  de  Pope  himself  pray  for  Mathurin,  to  save  his 
soul !     So. 

"  Mathurin  all  at  once  he  stan'  up,  and  his  face  it 
smile  and  smile,  and  he  stretch  out  his  arms  as  if  dey 
are  on  a  cross,  and  he  say,  *  Lord,  I  am  ready  t  go,' 
and  he  fall  down.  But  de  Cure  catch  him  as  fall, 
and  Mathurin  say,  '  De  chil'ren — let  dem  com*  o  me 
dat  I  teach  dem  before  I  die!'  An'  all  de  al'ren 
in  de  church  dey  come  close  to  him,  and  he  sit  .p  and 
smile  at  dem,  and  he  say : 

"  '  It  is  de  class  in  'rithmetic.  How  muc.  is  three 
times  four?  '  And  dem  all  answer,  *  Three  times  four 
is  twelve.'  And  he  say,  *  May  de  Twelve  Apostles 
pray  for  me ! '  Den  he  ask,  *  Class  in  geography — 
how  far  is  it  roun'  de  \\  orld  ?  '  And  dey  answer, 
*  Twenty-four  thousand  miks.'     He  say,  *  Goc .' ;  it  is 


^:'\\Y' 


I  70   THE  LANE  THAT  HAD  NO  TURNING 

not  so  far  to  God !  De  school  is  over  all  de  time,'  he 
say.  And  dat  ib  only  everyting  of  poor  Alathurin.  He 
is  dead. 

"  When  de  Cure  lay  him  down,  after  he  make  de  Sign 
upon  him,  he  kiss  his  face  and  say :  '  Mathurin,  now 
you  are  a  priest  unto  God ! '  " 


That  was  Angele  Rouvier's  story  of  Mathurin,  the 
Master  of  the  School,  for  whom  the  women  and  the 
children  pray  in  the  parish  of  Pontiac,  though  the 
school  has  been  dismissed  these  hundred  years  and 
nior«. 


RNING 

e  time,'  he 
hurin.    He 

ike  de  Sign 
liurin,  now 


ithurin,  the 

en  and  the 

though  the 

years  and 


THE  STORY  OF  THE  LIME- 
BURNER 


THE   STORY  OF  THE  LIME-BURNER 


FOR  a  man  in  whose  life  there  had  been  tragedy  he 
was  cheerful.  He  had  a  habit  of  humming 
vague  notes  in  the  silence  of  conversation,  as  if  to  put 
you  at  your  ease.  His  body  and  face  were  lean  and 
arid,  his  eyes  oblique  and  small,  his  hair  straight  and 
dry  and  straw-coloured ;  and  it  flew  out  crackling  with 
electricity,  to  meet  his  cap  as  he  put  it  on.  He  lived 
alone  in  a  little  hut  near  his  lime-kiln  by  the  river,  with 
no  near  neighbours,  and  few  companions  save  his  four 
dogs ;  and  these  he  fed  sometimes  at  expense  of  his 
own  stomach.  He  had  just  enough  crude  poetry  in 
his  nature  to  enjoy  his  surroundings.  For  he  was  well 
placed.  Behind  the  lime-kiln  rose  knoll  on  knoll,  and 
beyond  these,  the  verdant  hills,  all  converging  to  Dal- 
grothe  Mountain.  In  front  of  it  was  the  river  with  its 
banks  dropping  forty  feet,  and  below,  the  rapids,  al- 
ways troubled  and  sportive.  On  the  farther  side  of  the 
river  lay  peaceful  areas  of  meadow  and  corn  land,  and 
low-roofed,  hovering  farm-houses,  with  one  larger 
than  the  rest,  having  a  windm.ill  and  a  flagstaff.  This 
building  was  almost  large  enough  for  a  manor,  and  in- 
deed it  was  said  that  it  had  been  built  for  one  just  be- 
fore the  conquest  in  1759,  but  the  war  had  destroyed 
the  ambitious  owner,  and  it  had  become  a  farm-house. 
Paradis  always  knew  the  time  of  the  day  by  the  way 
the  light  fell  on  the  windmill.  He  had  owned  this 
farm  once,  he  and  his  brother  Fabian,  and  he  had  loved 


;;^vit^TY  Gr  , 


/  H 


>  k"V  '-. 


t  S  C  A  R  :i  v' 


/ 


174    THE  LANE  THAT  HAD  NO  TURNING 

it  as  he  loved  Fabian,  and  he  loved  it  now  as  he  loved 
Fabian's  memory.  In  spite  of  all,  they  were  cheerful 
memories,  both  of  brother  and  house. 

At  twenty-three  they  had  become  orphans,  with  two 
liundred  acres  of  land,  some  cash,  horses  and  cattle, 
and  plenty  of  credit  in  the  parish,  or  in  the  county,  for 
that  matter.  Both  were  of  hearty  dispositions,  but 
Fabian  had  a  taste  for  liquor,  and  Henri  for  pretty 
faces  and  shapely  ankles.  Yet  no  one  thought  the 
worse  of  them  for  that,  especially  at  first.  An  old 
servant  kept  house  for  them  and  cared  for  them  in 
her  honest  way,  both  physically  and  morally.  Sh': 
lectured  them  when  at  first  there  was  little  to  lecture 
about.  It  is  no  wonder  that  when  there  came  a  vast 
deal  to  reprove,  the  bonne  desisted  altogether,  over- 
whelmed by  the  weight  of  it. 

Henri  got  a  shock  the  day  before  their  father  died 
when  he  saw  Fabian  lift  the  brandy  used  to  mix  with 
the  milk  of  the  dying  man,  and  pouring  out  the  third 
of  a  tumbler,  drink  it  off,  smacking  his  lips  as  he  did 
so,  as  though  it  were  a  cordial.  That  gave  him  a  cue 
to  his  future  and  to  Fabian's.  After  their  father  died 
Fabian  gave  way  to  the  vice.  He  drank  in  the  taverns, 
he  was  at  once  the  despair  and  the  joy  of  the  parish; 
for,  wild  as  he  was,  he  had  a  gay  te  iiper,  a  humorous 
mind,  a  strong  arm,  and  was  the  uni\  ersal  lover.  The 
Cure,  who  did  not,  of  course,  know  t>ne-fourth  of  his 
wildness,  had  a  warm  spot  lor  h'.m  in  his  heart.  But 
there  was  a  vicious  strain  in  him  somewhere,  and  it 
came  out  one  day  in  a  perilous  fashion. 

There  was  in  the  hotel  of  the  Lcuis  OuIlzc  an  En?- 
lish  servant  from  the  west  called  Nei!  Barra  vay.  She 
had  been  in  a  hotel  in  Montreal,  and  it  was  there 
Fabian  had  seen  her  as  she  waited  at  tabic.     She  was 


A 


hi  ' 


THE   STORY   OF   THE    LIME-BURNER    175 

a  splcnditl-lookingf  creature — all  life  and  energy,  tall, 
fair-haired,  and  with  a  charm  above  her  kind.  Slic 
was  also  an  excellent  servant,  could  do  as  much  as  any 
two  women  in  any  house,  and  was  capable  of  more  airy 
diablerie  than  any  ten  of  her  sex  in  Pontiac.  When 
I'\ibian  had  said  to  her  in  Montreal  that  he  would  come 
to  see  her  again,  he  told  her  where  he  lived.  She  came 
to  see  him  instead,  for  she  wrote  to  the  landlord  of  the 
Louis  Quinze,  enclosed  fine  testimonials,  and  was  at 
once  engaged.  Fabian  was  stunned  when  he  entered 
the  Louis  Quinze  and  saw  her  waiting  at  table,  alert, 
busy,  good  to  behold.  She  nodded  at  him  with  a  tiuick 
smile  as  lie  stood  bewildered  just  inside  the  door,  then 
said  in  English  :  "  This  way,  m'sieu'." 

As  he  sat  down  he  said  in  English  also,  with  a  laugh 
and  with  snapping  eyes :  "  Good  Lord,  what  brings 
you  here,  ladybird?" 

As  she  pushed  a  chair  under  him  she  whispered 
through  his  hair,  "  You !  "  and  then  was  gone  away  to 
fetch  pea-soup  for  six  hungry  men. 

The  Louis  Quinze  did  more  business  now  in  three 
mon*:hs  than  it  had  done  before  in  six.  But  it  became 
known  among  a  few  in  Pontiac  that  Nell  was  noto- 
rious. How  it  had  crept  up  from  Montreal  no  one 
guessed,  and,  when  it  did  come,  her  name  was  very  in- 
timately associated  with  Fabian's.  No  one  could  say 
that  she  was  not  the  most  perfect  of  servants,  and  also 
no  one  could  say  that  her  life  in  Pontiac  had  not  been 
exemplary.  Yet  wise  people  had  made  up  their  minds 
that  she  was  determined  to  marry  Fabian,  and  the 
wisest  declared  that  she  would  do  so  in  spite  of  every- 
thing— religion  (she  was  a  Protestant),  character,  race. 
She  was  clever,  as  the  young  Seigneur  found,  as  the 
little  Avocat  was  forced  to  admit,  as  the  Cure  allowed 


IMAGE  EVALUATION 
TEST  TARGET  (MT-3) 


1.0 


I.I 


IM 


■  50 


■2.5 


iU     |3A       li 


2.2 


1.8 


1.25  il.4 


-    6" 


V 


v) 


:^  '5 


Photographic 

Sciences 

Corporation 


23  WEST  MAIN  STREET 

WEBSTER,  N.Y.  14S80 

(/16)  872-4503 


k 


176   THE  LANE  THAT  HAD  NO  TURNING 

with  a  sigh,  and  she  had  no  airs  of  badness  at  all  and 
very  little  of  usual  coquetry.  Fabian  was  enamoured, 
and  it  was  clear  that  he  intended  to  bring  the  woman 
to  the  Manor  one  way  or  another. 

Henri  admitted  the  fascination  of  the  woman,  felt  it, 
despaired,  went  to  Montreal,  got  proof  of  her  career, 
came  back,  and  made  his  final  and  only  effort  to  turn 
his  brother  from  the  girl. 

He  had  waited  an  hour  outside  the  hotel  for  his 
brother,  and  when  Fabian  got  in,  he  drove  on  without 
a  word.  After  a  while,  Fabian,  who  was  in  high  spirits, 
said: 

"  Open  your  mouth,  Henri.  Come  along,  sleepy- 
head." 

Straightway  he  began  to  sing  a  rollicking  song,  and 
Henri  joined  in  with  him  heartily,  for  the  spirit  of 
Fabian'3  humour  was  contagious : 

"  There  was  a  little  man, 
The  foolish  Guilleri 
Carabi. 

He  went  unto  the  chase, 
Of  partridges  the  chase, 
Carabi. 
Titi  Carabi, 
Toto  Carabo, 

You're  going  to  break  your  neck, 
My  lovely  Guilleri." 

He  was  about  to  begin  another  verse  when  Henri 
stopped  him,  saying : 

"  You're  going  to  break  your  neck,  Fabian." 

"  What's  up,  Henri  ?  "  was  the  reply. 

"  You're  drinking  hard,  and  you  don't  keep  good 
company." 


J.  \,' 


THE   STORY   OF   THE   LIME-BURNER    177 

Fabian  laughed.  "  Can't  get  the  company  I  want, 
so  what  I  can  get  I  have,  Henri,  my  lad." 

"  Don't  drink."  Henri  laid  his  free  hand  on  Fa- 
bian's knee. 

"  Whiskey-wine  is  meat  and  drink  to  me — I  was 
born  on  New  Year's  Day,  old  coffin-face.  Whiskey- 
wine  day,  they  ought  to  call  it.  Holy !  the  empty  jars 
that  day." 

Henri  sighed.  "  That's  the  drink,  Fabian,"  he  said 
patiently.  "  Give  up  the  company,  Fll  be  better 
company  for  you  than  that  girl,  Fabian." 

"Girl?     Wliat  the  devil  do  you  mean!" 

"  She,  Nell  Barraway  was  the  company  I  meant, 
Fabian." 

"Nell  Barraway — you  mean  her?  Bosh!  Fm 
going  to  marry  her,  Henri." 

"  You  mustn't,  Fabian,"  said  Henri,  eagerly  clutch- 
ing Fabian's  sleeve. 

"  But  I  must,  my  Henri.  She's  the  best-looking, 
wittiest  girl  I  ever  saw — splendid.  Never  lonely  with 
her." 

"  Looks  and  brains  isn't  everything,  Fabian." 

"  Isn't  it,  though !    Isn't  it?    Tiens!   You  try  it." 

"  Not  without  goodness."     Henri's  voice  weakened. 

"  That's  bosh.  Of  course  it  is,  Henri,  my  dear.  If 
you  love  a  woman,  if  she  gets  hold  of  you,  gets  into 
your  blood,  loves  you  so  that  the  touch  of  her  fingers 
sets  your  pulses  going  pom-pom,  you  don't  care  a  sou 
whether  she  is  good  or  not." 

"  You  mean  whether  she  teas  good  or  not?  " 

"  No,  I  don't.  I  mean  is  good  or  not.  For  if  she 
loves  you  she'll  travel  straight  for  your  sake.  Pshaw ! 
You  don't  know  anything  about  it." 

"  I  know  all  about  it." 

12 


178   THE  LANE  THAT  HAD  NO  TURNING 


€ 


',*  III  »■»»■• 


.^•r 


"  Know  all  about  it ! 
"  Yes." 


You're  in  love — you  ?  " 


Fabian  sat  open-mouthed  for  a  minute.  "  Go- 
dam  !  "  he  said.     It  was  his  one  English  oath. 

"  Is  she  good  company  ?  "  he  asked  after  a  minute. 

"  She's  the  same  as  you  keep — the  same.     Voila!" 

"  You  mean  Nell — Nell  ?  "  asked  Fabian,  in  a  dry, 
choking  voice. 

"  Yes,  Nell.  From  the  first  time  I  saw  her.  But  I'd 
cut  my  hand  off  first.  I'd  think  of  you;  of  our  peo- 
ple that  have  been  here  for  two  hundred  years; 
of  the  rooms  in  the  old  house  where  mother  used  to 
be." 

Fabian  laughed  nervously.  "  Holy  heaven,  and 
you've  got  her  in  your  blood,  too !  " 

"  Yes,  but  I'd  never  marry  her.  Fabian,  at  Mon- 
treal I  found  out  all  about  her.     She  was  as  bad " 

"  That's  nothing  to  me,  Henri,"  said  Fabian,  "  but 
something  else  is.  Here  you  are  now.  I'll  make  a 
bargain."  His  face  showed  pale  in  the  moonlight. 
"  If:  you'll  drink  with  me,  do  as  I  do,  go  where  I  go, 
play  the  devil  when  I  play  it,  and  never  squeal,  never 
hang  back,  I'll  give  her  up.  But  I've  got  to  have  you 
— got  to  have  you  all  the  time,  everywhere,  hunting, 
drinking,  or  letting  alone.  You'll  see  me  out,  for 
you're  stronger,  had  less  of  it.  I'm  for  the  little  low 
house  in  the  grass,  bientot.     Stop  the  horses." 

Henri  stopped  them  and  they  got  out.  They  were 
just  opposite  the  lime-kiln,  and  they  had  to  go  a  few 
hundred  yards  before  they  came  to  the  bridge  to  cross 
the  river  to  their  home.  The  light  of  the  fire  shone  in 
their  faces  as  Fabian  handed  the  flask  to  Henri,  and 
said :  "  Let's  drink  to  it,  Henri,  You  half,  and  me 
half."    He  was  deadly  pale. 


THE   STORY   OF   THE   LIME-BURNER    179 

Henri  drank  to  the  finger-mark  set,  and  then  Fabian 
lifted  the  flask  to  his  Hps. 

"  Good-bye,  Nell !  "  he  said.  ''  Here's  to  the  good 
times  we've  had !  "  He  emptied  the  flask,  and  threw 
it  over  the  bank  into  the  burning  lime,  and  Garotte,  the 
old  lime-burner,  being  half  asleep,  did  not  see  or  hear. 

The  next  day  the  two  went  on  a  long  hunting  ex- 
pedition, and  the  following  month  Nell  Barraway  left 
for  Montreal. 


Henri  kept  to  his  compscl,  drink  for  drink,  sport  for 
sport.  One  year  the  crops  were  sold  before  they  were 
reaped,  horses  and  cattle  went  little  by  little,  then  came 
mortgage,  and  still  Henri  never  wavered,  never  weak- 
ened, in  spite  of  the  Cure  anr'  all  others.  The  brothers 
were  always  together,  and  never  from  first  to  last  did 
Henri  lose  his  temper,  or  openly  lament  that  ruin  was 
coming  surely  on  them.  What  money  Fabian  wanted 
he  got.  The  Cure's  admonitions  availed  nothing,  for 
Fabian  would  go  his  gait.  The  end  came  on  the  very 
spot  where  the  compact  had  been  made;  for,  passing 
the  lime-kiln  one  dark  night,  as  the  two  rode  home  to- 
gether, Fabian's  horse  shied,  the  bank  of  the  river  gave 
way,  and  with  a  startled  "  Ah,  Henri! "  the  profligate 
and  his  horse  were  gone  into  the  river  below. 

Next  month  the  farm  and  all  were  sold,  Henri  Para- 
dis  succeeded  the  old  lime-burner  at  his  post,  drank  no 
more  ever,  and  lived  his  life  in  sight  of  the  old  home. 


THE  WOODSMAN'S  STORY  OF 
THE  GREAT  WHITE  CHIEF 


TI 


1 

the 
to] 
as 
kni 
"H 
on 


ther 
one 


fath 
He 
the 
off  I 
spea 


pany 
Ikn 
Hon'i 
ways 
their 
neck 
go  w 
chief, 


THE  WOODSMAN'S  STORY  OF  THE  GREAT 

WHITE  CHIEF 


THE  old  woodsman  shifted  the  knife  with  which  he 
was  mending  his  fishing-rod  from  one  hand  to 
the  other,  and  looked  at  it  musingly,  before  he  replied 
to  Medallion.  "  Yes,  m'sieu',  I  knew  the  White  Chief, 
as  they  called  him :  this  was  his  " — holding  up  the 
knife ;  **  and  this  " — taking  a  watch  from  his  pocket. 
"  He  gave  them  to  me ;  I  was  with  him  in  the  Circle 
on  the  great  journey." 

"  Tell  us  about  him,  then,"  Medallion  urged ;  "  for 
there  are  many  tales,  and  who  knows  which  is  the  right 
one?" 

"  The  right  one  is  mine.  Holy,  he  was  to  me  like  a 
father  then !  I  know  more  of  the  truth  than  any  one." 
He  paused  a  moment,  looking  out  on  the  river  where 
the  hot  sun  was  playing  with  all  its  might,  then  took 
off  his  cap  with  deliberation,  laid  it  beside  him,  and 
speaking  as  it  were  into  the  distance,  began : 

"  He  once  was  a  trader  of  the  Hudson's  Ba>  Com- 
pany. Of  his  birth  some  said  one  thing,  some  another ; 
I  know  he  was  beaucoiip  gentil,  and  his  heart,  it  was  a 
lion's !  Once,  when  there  was  trouble  with  the  Chipp'- 
ways,  he  went  alone  to  their  camp,  and  say  he  will  fight 
their  strongest  man,  to  stop  the  trouble.  He  twist  the 
neck  of  the  great  fighting  man  of  the  tribe,  so  that  it 
go  with  a  snap,  and  that  ends  it,  and  he  was  made  a 
chief,  for,  you  see,  in  their  hearts  they  all  hated  their. 


i84   THE  LANE  THAT  HAD  NO  TURNING 


i,i„ ' 


strong  man.  Well,  one  winter  there  come  down  to 
I'^ort  o'  God  two  Esquimaux,  and  they  say  that  thrt-t' 
wliitc  men  arc  wintering  by  the  Coppermine  River; 
tliey  had  travel  down  fruiii  the  frozen  seas  wlien 
tiieir  ship  was  lock  in  tli:  ice,  but  can  get  no  farther. 
Tiiey  were  sick  with  the  evil  skin,  and  starving.  The 
White  Chief  say  to  me :  '  Galloir,  will  you  go  to  rescue 
them  ?  '  I  would  have  gone  with  him  to  the  ends  of 
the  world — and  this  was  near  otie  end." 

The  old  man  laughed  to  himself,  tossed  his  jet-black 
hair  from  his  wrinkled  face,  and,  after  a  moment,  went 
on :  "  There  never  was  such  a  winter  as  that.  The  air 
was  so  still  by  times  that  you  can  hear  the  rustle  of 
the  stars  and  the  shifting  of  the  northern  lights;  but 
the  cold  at  night  caught  you  by  the  heart  and  clamp 
it — Mon  Dicu!  how  it  clamp!  We  crawl  under  the 
snow  and  lay  in  our  bags  of  fur  and  wool,  and  the  dogs 
hug  close  to  us.  We  were  sorry  for  the  dogs  ;  and  one 
died,  and  then  another,  and  there  is  nothing  so  dreadful 
as  to  hear  the  dogs  howl  in  the  long  night — it  is  like 
ghosts  crying  in  an  empty  world.  The  circle  of  the 
sun  get  smaller  and  smaller,  till  he  only  tramp  along 
the  high  edge  of  the  northwest.  We  got  to  the  river 
at  last,  and  found  the  camp.  There  is  one  man  dead — 
only  one ;  but  there  were  bones — ah,  m'sieu',  you  not 
guess  what  a  thing  it  is  to  look  upon  the  bones  of  men, 
and  know  that !  " 

Medallion  put  his  hand  on  the  old  man's  arm. 
"  Wait  a  minute,"  he  said.  Then  he  poured  out  cofTee 
for  both,  and  they  drank  before  the  rest  was  told. 

"  It's  a  creepy  story,"  said  Medallion,  "  but  go  on." 

"Well,  the  White  Chief  look  at  the  dead  man  as 
he  sit  there  in  the  snow,  with  a  book  and  a  piece  of 
paper  beside  him,  and  the  pencil  in  the  book.    The  face 


ING 


THE   WOODSMAN'S  STORY 


185 


own  to 
it  three 

River ; 
s    wlien 

lartbcr. 
g.     The 

0  rescue 
ends  of 

jet-black 
:nt,  went 
The  air 
rnstle  of 
^hts;  but 
nd  clamp 
inder  the 

1  the  dops 
1 ;  and  one 
3  dreadful 
-it  is  like 
cle  of  the 
rnp  along 

the  river 
.n  dead — ■ 
I',  you  not 
IS  of  men, 


is  bent  forward  to  the  knees.  The  White  Chief  pick 
up  tile  book  and  pencil,  and  then  kneel  down  and  gaze 
up  in  the  dead  man's  f:ice,  all  hard  like  stone  and 
crusted  with  frost.  I  thought  he  would  never  stir 
again,  he  look  so  'ong.  1  think  he  was  puzzle.  Then 
he  turn  and  say  to  me :  *  So  quiet,  so  awful,  Galloir ! ' 
:ind  got  up.  Well,  but  it  was  cold  then,  and  my  head 
seemed  big  and  running  about  like  a  ball  of  air.  But  I 
light  a  spirit-lamp,  and  make  some  cofTee,  and  he  oj^en 
the  dead  man's  book — it  is  what  they  call  a  diary — and 
be^jin  to  read.  All  at  once  I  hear  a  cry,  and  I  see  hitn 
ihoj)  the  book  on  the  ground,  and  go  to  tiie  dead  man, 
and  jerk  his  fist  as  if  to  strike  him  in  the  face.  But  he 
did  not  strike." 

Galloir  stopped, and  lighted  his  pipe,  and  was  so  long 
silent  that  Medallion  had  to  jog  him  into  speaking. 
He  pufTcd  the  smoke  so  that  his  face  was  in  the  cloud, 
and  he  said  through  it :  "  No,  he  did  not  strike.  He  get 
to  his  feet  and  spoke :  '  God  forgive  her ! '  like  that, 
and  come  and  take  up  the  book  again,  and  read.  He 
eat  and  drunk,  and  read  the  book  again,  and  I  know  by 
his  face  that  something  more  than  cold  was  clamp  his 
heart. 

"  '  Shall  we  bury  him  in  the  snow? '  I  say.  *  No,' 
he  spoke,  *  let  him  sit  there  till  the  Judgmen'.  This 
is  a  wonderful  book,  Galloir,'  he  went  on.  *  He  was  a 
brave  man,  but  the  rest ! — the  rest ! ' — then  under  his 
breath  almost :  *  She  was  so  young — but  a  child.'  I 
not  understand  that.  We  start  away  soon,  leaving  the 
thing  there.  For  four  days,  and  then  I  see  that  the 
White  Chief  will  never  get  back  to  Fort  Pentecost; 
but  he  read  the  dead  man's  book  much.     .     .     ." 

"  I  cannot  forget  that  one  day.  He  lay  looking  at 
the  world — nothing  but  the  waves  of  snow,  shining 


186  THE  LANE  THAT  HAD  NO  TURNING 

blue  and  white,  on  and  on.  The  sun  Hft  an  eye  of 
blood  in  the  north,  winking  like  a  devil  as  I  try  to  drive 
Death  away  by  calling  in  his  ear.  He  wake  all  at 
once;  but  his  eyes  seem  asleep.  He  tell  me  to  take 
the  book  to  a  great  man  in  Montreal — he  give  me  the 
name.  Then  he  take  out  his  watch — it  is  stop — and 
this  knife,  and  put  them  into  my  hands,  and  then  he 
pat  my  shoulder.  He  motion  to  have  the  bag  drawn 
over  his  head.  I  do  it.  .  .  .  Of  course  that  was 
the  end  1  " 

"  But  what  about  the  book  ?  "  Medallion  asked. 

"  That  book  ?  It  was  strange.  I  took  it  to  the  man 
in  Montreal — Tonncrre,  what  a  fine  house  and  good 
wine  had  he ! — and  told  him  all.  He  whip  out  a  scarf, 
and  blow  his  nose  loud,  and  say  very  angry :  *  So,  she's 
lost  both  now!  What  a  scoundrel  he  was!  .  .  .' 
"Which  one  did  he  mean?     I  not  understand  ever 


smce. 


II 


NING 

n  eye  of 
r  to  drive 
ke  all  at 
J  to  take 
e  me  the 
top — and 
I  then  he 
\g  drawn 
that  was 

iked. 

)  the  man 

md  good 

It  a  scarf, 

So,  she's 

I  .  .  ; 

and  ever 


UNCLE  JIM 


1  ■ 


l;i 


h 

J 

a  h 

saw 

spli 

liar 

lum 

war 

and 

beer 

and 

whic 

of  m 

Add 

spea 

he  c( 

cut,  1 

was, 

Labc 

ing-b 

pail,  i 

he  en 

till  th 

stepp 

Wint( 

fire  a 


UNCLE  JIM 


HE  was  no  uncle  of  mine,  but  it  pleased  me  that  he 
let  me  call  him  Uncle  Jim. 
It  seems  only  yesterday  that,  for  the  first  time,  on 
a  farm  "  over  the  border,"  from  the  French  province,  I 
saw  him  standing  by  a  log  outside  the  wood-house  door, 
splitting  maple  knots.  He  was  all  bent  by  years  and 
hard  work,  with  muscles  of  iron,  hands  gnarled  and 
lumpy,  but  clinching  like  a  vice ;  grey  head  thrust  for- 
ward on  shoulders  which  had  carried  forkfuls  of  hay 
and  grain,  and  leaned  to  the  cradle  and  the  scythe,  and 
been  heaped  with  cordwood  till  they  were  like  hide 
and  metal ;  white  straggling  beard  and  red  watery  eyes, 
which,  to  me,  were  always  hung  with  an  intangible  veil 
of  mystery — though  that,  maybe,  was  my  boyish  fancy. 
Added  to  all  this  he  was  so  very  deaf  that  you  had  to 
speak  clear  and  loud  into  his  ear;  and  many  people 
he  could  not  hear  at  all,  if  their  words  were  not  sharp- 
cut,  no  matter  how  loud.  A  silent,  withdrawn  man  he 
was,  living  close  to  Mother  Earth,  twin-brother  of 
Labour,  to  whom  Morning  and  Daytime  were  sound- 
ing-boards for  his  axe,  scythe,  saw,  flail,  and  milking- 
pail,  and  Night  a  round  hollow  of  darkness  into  which 
he  crept,  shutting  the  doors  called  Silence  behind  him, 
till  the  impish  page  of  Toil  came  tapping  again,  and  he 
stepped  awkwardly  into  the  working  world  once  more. 
Winter  and  summer  saw  him  putting  the  kettle  on  the 
fire  a  few  minutes  after  four  o'clock,  in  winter  issuing 


190    THE  LANE  THAT  HAD  NO  TURNING 


with  lantern  from  the  kitchen  door  to  the  stable  and 
barn  to  feed  the  stock;  in  summer  sniffing:  the  prev 
dawn  and  looking  out  on  his  fields  of  rye  and  barley, 
before  he  went  to  gather  the  cows  for  milking  and  take 
the  horses  to  water. 

For  forty  years  he  and  his  worn-faced  wife  bowed 
themselves  beneath  the  yoke,  first  to  pay  for  the  hun- 
dred-acre farm,  and  then  to  bring  up  and  educate  their 
seven  children.  Something  noble  in  them  gave  them 
ambitions  for  their  boys  and  girls  which  they  had  never 
had  for  themselves ;  but  when  had  gone  the  forty  years, 
in  v/hich  the  little  farm  had  twice  been  mortgaged  to 
put  the  eldest  son  through  college  as  a  doctor,  they 
faced  the  bitter  fact  that  the  farm  had  passed  from 
them  to  Rodney,  the  second  son,  who  had  come  at  last 
to  keep  a  hotel  in  a  town  fifty  miles  away.  Generous- 
hearted  people  would  think  that  these  grown-up  sons 
and  daughters  should  have  returned  the  old  people's 
long  toil  and  care  by  buying  up  the  farm  and  handing 
it  back  to  them,  their  rightful  refuge  in  the  decline  of 
life.  But  it  was  not  so.  They  were  tenants  where 
they  had  been  owners,  dependents  where  they  had  been 
givers,  slaves  where  once  ihey  were  masters.  The  old 
mother  toiled  without  a  servant,  the  old  man  without 
a  helper,  save  in  harvest  time. 

But  the  great  blow  came  when  Rodney  married  the 
designing  milliner  who  flaunted  her  wares  opposite  his 
bar-room;  and,  somehow,  from  the  date  of  that  mar- 
riage, Rodney's  good  fortune  and  the  hotel  declined. 
When  he  and  his  wife  first  visited  the  little  farm  after 
their  marriage  the  old  mother  shrank  away  from  the 
young  woman's  painted  face,  and  ever  afterwards  an 
added  sadness  showed  in  her  bearing  and  in  her  pa- 
tient smile.     But  she  took  Rodney's  wife  through  the 


UNCLE   JIM 


19T 


house,  showing  her  all  there  was  to  show,  though  that 
was  not  much.  There  was  the  little  parlour  with  its 
hair-cloth  chairs,  rag  carpet,  centre  table,  and  iron 
stove  with  black  pipes,  all  gaily  varnished.  There  was 
the  parlour  bedroom  oiT  it,  with  the  one  feather-bed  of 
the  house  bountifully  piled  up  with  coarse  home-made 
blankets,  topped  by  a  silk  patchwork  quilt,  the  artistic 
labour  of  the  old  wife's  evening  hours  while  Uncle  Jim 
peeled  apples  and  strung  them  to  dry  from  the  rafters. 
There  was  a  room,  dining-room  in  summer,  and 
kitchen  dining-room  in  winter,  as  clean  as  aged  hands 
could  scrub  and  dust  it,  hung  about  with  stray  pictures 
from  illustrated  papers,  and  a  good  old  clock  in  the 
corner  ticking  life,  and  youth,  and  hope  away.  There 
was  the  buttery  off  that,  with  its  meagre  china  and 
crockery,  its  window  looking  out  on  the  field  of  rye, 
the  little  orchard  of  winter  apples,  and  the  hedge  of 
cranberry  bushes.  Upstairs  were  rooms  with  no  ceil- 
ings, where,  lying  on  a  corn-husk  bed,  you  reached  up 
and  touched  the  sloping  roof,  with  windows  at  the  end 
only,  facing  the  buckwheat  field,  and  looking  down  two 
miles  toward  the  main  road — for  the  farm  was  on  a 
concession  or  side-road,  dusty  in  summer,  and  in  win- 
ter sometimes  impassable  for  weeks  together.  It  was 
not  much  of  a  home,  as  any  one  with  the  mind's  eye  can 
see,  but  four  stalwart  men  and  three  fine  women  had 
been  born,  raised,  and  quartered  there,  until,  with  good 
clothes,  and  speaking  decent  English  and  tolerable 
French,  and  with  money  in  their  pockets,  hardly  got 
by  the  old  people,  one  by  one  they  issued  forth  into  the 
world. 

The  old  mother  showed  Rodney's  wife  what  there 
was  for  eyes  to  see,  not  forgetting  the  three  hives  of 
bees  on  the  south  side,  beneath  the  parlor  window. 


192    THE  LANE  THAT  HAD  NO  TURNING 


i  \ 


She  showed  it  with  a  kind  of  pride,  for  it  all  seemed 
good  to  her,  and  every  dish,  and  every  chair,  and  every 
corner  in  the  little  house  had  to  her  a  glory  of  its  own, 
because  of  those  who  had  come  and  gone — the  first- 
lings of  her  flock,  the  roses  of  her  little  garden  of  love, 
blooming  now  in  a  rougher  air  than  ranged  over  the 
little  house  on  the  hill.  She  had  looked  out  upon 
the  pine  woods  to  the  east  and  the  meadow-land  to  the 
north,  the  sweet  valley  between  the  rye-field  and  the 
orchard,  and  the  good  honest  air  that  had  blown  there 
for  forty  years,  bracing  her  heart  and  body  for  the 
battle  of  love  and  life,  and  she  had  said  through  all, 
Behold  it  is  very  good. 

But  the  pert  milliner  saw  nothing  of  all  this;  she  did 
not  stand  abashed  in  the  sacred  precincts  of  a  home 
where  seven  times  the  Angel  of  Death  had  hovered 
over  a  birth-bed.  She  looked  into  the  face  which 
Time's  finger  had  anointed,  and  motherhood  had 
etched  with  trouble,  and  said : 

"  'Tisn't  much,  is  it?  Only  a  clap-board  house,  and 
no  ceilings  upstairs,  and  rag  carpets — pshaw!  " 

And  when  she  came  to  wash  her  hands  for  dinner, 
she  threw  aside  the  unscented,  common  bar-soap,  and, 
shrugging  her  narrow  shoulders  at  the  coarse  towel, 
wiped  her  fingers  on  her  cambric  handkerchief.  Any 
other  kind  of  a  woman,  when  she  saw  the  old  mother 
going  about  with  her  twisted  wrist — a  doctor's  bad 
work  with  a  fracture — would  have  tucked  up  her  dress, 
and  tied  on  an  apron  to  help.  But  no,  she  sat  and 
preened  herself  with  the  tissue-paper  sort  of  pride  of  a 
vain  milliner,  or  nervously  shifted  about,  lifting  up  this 
and  that,  curiously  supercilious,  her  tongue  rattling 
on  to  her  husband  and  to  his  mother  in  a  shallow,  fool- 
ish way.     She  couldn't  say,  however,  that  anything 


NG 

eemed 
[  every 
s  own, 
e  first- 
)f  love, 
^er  the 
t  upon 
i  to  the 
md  the 
n  there 
for  the 
ugh  all, 

she  did 
a  home 
hovered 
e  which 
>od   had 

use,  and 

dinner, 
ap,  and, 
towel. 
Any 
mother 
)r's  bad 
er  dress, 
sat  and 
•ide  of  a 
up  this 
rattling 
)w,  fool- 
[nything 


UNCLE  JIM 


193 


I. 


was  out  of  order  or  ill-kept  about  the  place.  The  old 
woman's  rheumatic  fingers  made  corners  clean,  and 
wood  as  white  as  snow,  the  stove  was  polished,  the  tins 
were  bright,  and  her  own  dress,  no  matter  what  her 
work,  neat  as  a  girl's,  although  the  old  graceful  poise 
of  the  body  had  twisted  out  of  drawing. 

But  the  real  crisis  came  when  Rodney,  having  stood 
at  the  wood-house  door  and  blown  the  dinner-horn  as 
he  used  to  do  when  a  boy,  the  sound  floating  and  cry- 
ing away  across  the  rye-field,  the  old  man  came — for, 
strange  to  say,  that  was  the  one  sound  he  could  hear 
easily,  though,  as  he  said  to  himself,  it  seemed  as  small 
as  a  pin,  coming  from  ever  so  far  away.  He  came 
heavily  up  from  the  barn-yard,  mopping  his  red  face 
and  forehead,  and  now  and  again  raising  his  hand  to 
shade  his  eyes,  concerned  to  see  the  unknown  visitors, 
whose  horse  and  buggy  were  in  the  stable-yard.  He 
and  Rodney  greeted  outside  warmly  enough,  but  there 
was  some  trepidation  too  in  Uncle  Jim's  face — he  felt 
trouble  brewing ;  and  there  is  no  trouble  like  that  which 
comes  between  parent  and  child.  Silent  as  he  was, 
however,  he  had  a  large  and  cheerful  heart,  and  nod- 
ding his  head  he  laughed  the  deep,  quaint  laugh  which 
Rodney  himself  of  all  his  sons  had — and  he  was  fonder 
of  Rodney  than  any.  He  washed  his  hands  in  the  little 
basin  outside  the  wood-house  door,  combed  out  his 
white  beard,  rubbed  his  red,  watery  eyes,  tied  a  clean 
handkerchief  round  his  neck,  put  on  a  rusty  but  clean 
old  coat,  and  a  minute  afterwards  was  shaking  hands 
for  the  first  time  with  Rodney's  wife.  He  had  lived 
much  apart  from  his  kind,  but  he  had  a  mind  that  fast- 
ened upon  a  thought  and  worked  it  down  until  it  was 
an  axiom.  He  felt  how  shallow  was  this  thin,  flaunt- 
ing woman  of  flounces  and  cheap  rouge;  he  saw  her 

13 


I   ! 


i  4 


194   THE  LANE  THAT  HAD  NO  TURNING 

sniff  at  the  brown  sugar — she  had  always  had  white  at 
the  hotel ;  and  he  noted  that  she  let  Rodney's  mother 
clear  away  and  wash  the  dinner  things  herself.  He  felt 
the  little  crack  of  doom  before  it  came. 

It  came  about  three  o'clock.  He  did  not  return  to 
the  rye-field  after  dinner,  but  stayed  and  waited  to  hear 
what  Rodney  had  to  say.  Rodney  did  not  tell  his  little 
story  well,  for  he  foresaw  trouble  in  the  old  home; 
but  he  had  to  face  this  and  all  coming  dilemmas  as  best 
he  might.  With  a  kind  of  shame-facedness,  yet  with 
an  attempt  to  carry  the  thing  off  lightly,  he  told  Uncle 
Jim,  while,  inside,  his  wife  told  the  old  mother,  that  the 
business  of  the  hotel  had  gone  to  pot  (he  did  not  say 
who  was  the  cause  of  that),  and  they  were  selling  out 
to  his  partner  and  coming  to  live  on  the  farm. 

"  I'm  tired  anyway  of  the  hotel  job,"  said  Rodney. 
"  Farming's  a  better  life.     Don't  you  think  so,  dad? " 

"  It's  better  for  me.  Rod,"  answered  Uncle  Jim,  "  it's 
better  for  me." 

Rodney  was  a  little  uneasy.  "  But  won't  it  be  better 
for  me?  "  he  asked. 

"  Mebbe,"  was  the  slow  answer,  "  mebbe,  mebbe  so." 

"  And  then  there's  mo^^her,  she's  getting  too  old  for 
the  work,  ain't  she?  " 

"  She's  done  it  straight  along,"  answered  the  old 
man,  "  straight  along  till  now." 

"  But  Millie  can  help  her,  and  we'll  have  a  hired 
girl,  eh  ?  " 

"  I  dunno,  I  dunno,"  was  the  brooding  answer;  "  the 
place  ain't  going  to  stand  it." 

"  Oh,  we'll  get  more  out  of  it,"  answered  Rodney. 
*'  I'll  stock  it  up,  I'll  put  more  under  barley.  All  the 
thing  wants  is  working,  dad.  Put  more  in,  get  more 
out.     Now  ain't  that  right  ?  " 


UNCLE   JIM 


195 


The  other  was  looking  off  towards  the  rye-field, 
where,  for  forty  years,  up  and  down  the  hill-side,  he 
had  travelled  with  the  cradle  and  the  scythe,  putting 
all  there  was  in  him  into  it,  and  he  answered,  blinking 
along  the  avenue  of  the  past : 

"  Mebbe,  mebbe !  " 

Rodney  fretted  under  the  old  man's  vague  replies, 
and  said,  "  But  darn  it  all,  can't  you  tell  us  what  you 
think?" 

His  father  did  not  take  his  eyes  off  the  rye-field. 
"I'm  thinking,"  he  answered, in  the  same  old-fashioned 
way,  "  that  I've  been  working  here  since  you  were 
born.  Rod.  I've  blundered  along  somehow,  just 
boggling  my  way  through.  I  ain't  got  anything  more 
to  say.  The  farm  ain't  mine  any  more,  but  I'll  keep 
my  scythe  sharp  and  my  axe  ground  just  as  I  always 
did,  and  I'm  for  workin'  as  I've  always  worked  as  long 
as  I'm  let  to  stay." 

"  Good  Lord,  dad,  don't  talk  that  way.  Things 
ain't  going  to  be  any  different  for  you  and  mother 
than  they  are  now.     Only,  of  course "    He  paused. 

The  old  man  pieced  out  the  sentence:  "  Only,  of 
course,  there  can't  be  two  women  rulin'  one  house, 
Rod,  and  you  know  it  as  well  as  I  do." 

Exactly  how  Rodney's  wife  told  the  old  mother  of 
the  great  change  Rodney  never  knew;  but  when  he 
went  back  to  the  house  the  grey  look  in  his  mother's 
face  told  him  more  than  her  words  ever  told.  Before 
they  left  that  night  the  pink  milliner  had  already 
planned  the  changes  which  were  to  celebrate  her  com- 
ing and  her  ruling. 

So  Rodney  and  his  wife  came,  all  the  old  man  prophe- 
sied in  a  few  brief  sentences  to  his  wife  proving  true. 
There  was  no  great  struggle  on  the  mother's  part;  she 


196   THE  LANE  THAT  HAD  NO  TURNING 


stepped  aside  from  governing,  and  became  as  like  a 
servant  as  could  be.  An  insolent  servant  girl  came,  and 
she  and  Rodney's  wife  started  a  little  drama  of  incom- 
petency, which  should  end  as  the  hotel-keeping  ended. 
Wastefulness,  cheap  luxury,  tawdry  living,  took  the 
place  of  the  old,  frugal,  simple  life.  But  the  mother 
went  about  with  that  unchanging  sweetness  of  face, 
and  a  body  withering  about  a  fretted  soul.  She  had 
no  bitterness,  only  a  miserable  distress.  Bat  every 
slight  that  was  put  upon  her,  every  change,  every  new- 
fangled idea,  from  the  white  sugar  to  the  scented  soap 
and  the  yellow  buggy,  rankled  in  the  old  man's  heart. 
He  had  resentment  both  for  the  old  wife  and  himself, 
and  he  hated  the  pink  milliner  for  the  humiliation  that 
she  heaped  upon  them  both.  Rodney  did  not  see  one- 
fifth  of  it,  and  what  he  did  see  lost  its  force,  because, 
strangely  enough,  he  loved  the  gaudy  wife  who  wore 
gloves  on  her  bloodless  hands  as  she  did  the  house- 
work and  spent  numberless  afternoons  in  trimming 
her  own  bonnets.  Her  peevishness  grew  apace  as 
the  newness  of  the  experience  wore  off.  Uncle  Jim 
seldom  spoke  to  her,  as  he  seldom  spoke  to  any- 
body, but  she  had  an  inkling  of  the  rancour  in  his 
heart,  and  many  a  time  she  put  blame  upon  his  shoul- 
ders to  her  husband,  when  some  unavoidable  friction 
came. 

A  year,  two  years,  passed,  which  were  as  ten  upon 
the  shoulders  of  the  old  people,  and  then,  in  the  dead 
of  winter,  an  important  thing  happened.  About  the 
month  of  March  Rodney's  first  child  was  expected. 
At  the  end  of  January  Rodney  had  to  go  away,  expect- 
ing to  return  in  less  than  a  month.  But,  in  the  middle 
of  February,  the  woman's  sacred  trouble  came  before 
its  time.    And  on  that  day  there  fell  such  a  storm  as 


UNCLE  JIM 


197 


had  not  been  seen  for  many  a  year.  The  concession 
road  was  blocked  before  day  had  well  set  in ;  no  horse 
could  go  ten  yards  in  it.  The  nearest  doctor  was 
miles  away  at  Pontiac,  and  for  any  man  to  face  the 
journey  was  to  connive  with  death.  The  old  mother 
came  to  Uncle  Jim,  and,  as  she  looked  out  of  a  little 
unfrusLed  spot  on  the  window  at  the  blinding  storm, 
lold  him  that  the  pink  milliner  would  die.  There 
seemed  no  other  end  to  it,  for  the  chances  were  a  hun- 
dred to  one  against  the  strongest  man  making  a  jour- 
ney for  the  doctor,  and  another  hundred  to  one  against 
the  doctor's  coming. 

No  one  knows  whether  Uncle  Jim  could  hear  the 
cries  from  the  torture-chamber,  but,  after  standing  for 
a  time  mumbling  to  himself,  he  wrapped  himself  in  a 
heavy  coat,  tied  a  muffler  about  his  face,  and  went  out. 
If  they  missed  him  they  must  have  thought  him  gone 
to  the  barn,  or  in  the  drive-shed  sharpening  his  axe. 
But  the  day  went  on  and  the  old  mother  forgot  all  the 
wrongs  that  she  had  suffered,  and  yearned  over  the 
trivial  woman  who  was  hurrying  out  into  the  Great 
Space.  Her  hours  seemed  numbered  at  noon,  her 
moments  measured  as  it  came  towards  sundown,  but 
with  the  passing  of  the  sun  the  storm  stopped,  and  a 
beautiful  white  peace  fell  on  the  world  of  snow,  and 
suddenly  out  of  that  peace  came  six  men ;  and  the  first 
that  opened  the  door  was  the  doctor.  After  him  came 
Uncle  Jim,  supported  between  two  others. 

Uncle  Jim  had  made  the  terrible  journey,  falling  at 
last  in  the  streets  of  the  country  town  with  frozen 
hands  and  feet,  not  a  dozen  rods  from  the  doctor's 
door.  They  brought  him  to,  he  told  his  story,  and, 
with  the  abating  of  the  storm,  the  doctor  and  the  vil- 
lagers drove  down  to  the  concession  road,  and  then 


o 


198   THE  LANE  THAT  HAD  NO  TURNING 

made  their  way  slowly  up  across  the  fields,  carrying 
the  old  man  with  them,  for  he  would  not  be  left  be- 
hind. 


An  hour  after  the  doctor  entered  the  parlour  bed- 
room the  old  mother  came  out  to  where  the  old  man 
sat,  bundled  up  beside  the  fire  with  bandaged  hands 
and  feet. 

"  She's  safe,  Jim,  and  the  child  too,"  she  said  softly. 

The  old  man  twisted  in  his  chair,  and  blinked  into 
the  fire.     "  Dang  my  soul!  "  he  said. 

The  old  woman  stooped  and  kissed  his  grey  tangled 
hair.  She  did  not  speak,  and  she  did  not  ask  him  what 
he  meant;  but  there  and  then  they  took  up  their  lives 
again  and  lived  them  out. 


THE    HOUSE   WITH    THE   TALL 

PORCH 


I 

da 
pe 
Se 
vo 
he 
g-a) 
Ian 

the 
in^ 
on 
ten 

dro 
she 
furt 

a  tj 
line 
whi 
pen 
ful 
in  H 
the 
and 
hanc 


THE  HOUSE  WITH  THE  TALL  PORCH 


NO  one  ever  visited  t'le  House  except  the  Little 
Chemist,  the  Avocat,  and  Medallion ;  and  Me- 
dallion, though  merely  an  auctioneer,  was  the  only 
person  on  terms  of  intimacy  with  its  owner,  the  old 
Seigneur,  who  for  many  years  had  never  stirred  be- 
yond the  limits  of  his  little  garden.  At  rare  intervals 
he  might  be  seen  sitting  in  the  large  stone  porch  which 
gave  overweighted  dignity  to  the  house,  itself  not  very 
large. 

An  air  of  mystery  surrounded  the  place :  in  summer 
the  grass  was  rank,  the  trees  seemed  huddled  together 
in  gloom  about  the  houses,  the  vines  appeared  to  ooze 
on  the  walls,  and  at  one  end,  where  the  window-shut- 
ters were  always  closed  and  barred,  a  great  willow 
drooped  and  shivered ;  in  winter  the  stone  walls 
showed  naked  and  grim  among  the  gaunt  trees  and 
furtive  shrubs. 

None  who  ever  saw  the  Seigneur  could  forget  him — 
a  tall  figure  with  stooping  shoulders ;  a  pale,  deeply 
lined,  clean-shaven  face;  and  a  forehead  painfully 
white,  with  blue  veins  showing;  the  eyes  handsome, 
penetrative,  brooding,  and  made  indescribably  sorrow- 
ful by  the  dark  skin  around  them.  There  were  those 
in  Pontiac,  such  as  the  Cure,  who  remembered  when 
the  Seigneur  was  constantly  to  be  seen  in  the  village ; 
and  then  another  person  was  with  him  always,  a  tall, 
handsome  youth,  his  son.    They  were  fond  and  proud 


v.. 


202    THE  LANE  THAT  HAD  NO  TURNING 


of  each  other,  and  were  religious  and  good  citizens  in 
a  high-bred,  punctiHous  way. 

At  that  time  the  Seigneur  was  all  health  and  stalwart 
strength.  But  one  day  a  rumour  went  abroad  that  he 
had  quarrelled  with  his  son  because  of  the  wife  of 
Farette  the  miller.  No  one  outside  knew  if  the  thing 
was  true,  but  Julie,  the  miller's  wife,  seemed  rather  to 
plume  herself  that  she  had  made  a  stir  in  her  little 
world.  Yet  the  curious  habitants  came  to  know  that 
the  young  man  had  gone,  and  after  a  few  years  his 
having  once  lived  there  had  become  a  mere  mem- 
ory. But  whenever  the  Little  Chemist  set  foot  inside 
the  tall  porch  he  remembered ;  the  Avocat  was  kept 
in  mind  by  papers  which  he  was  called  upon  to  read  and 
alter  from  time  to  time ;  the  Cure  never  forgot,  because 
w^hen  the  young  man  went  he  lost  not  one  of  his  fiock, 
but  two ;  and  Medallion,  knowing  something  of  the 
story,  had  wormed  a  deal  of  truth  out  of  the  miller's 
wife.  Medallion  knew  that  the  closed,  barred  rooms 
were  the  young  man's  •  and  he  knew  also  that  the  old 
man  was  waiting,  waiting,  in  a  hope  which  he  never 
even  named  to  himself. 

One  day  the  silent  old  housekeeper  came  i:^pping  at 
[Medallion's  door,  and  simply  said  to  him,  "  Come — the 
Seigneur !  " 

Medallion  went,  and  for  hours  sat  beside  the  Sei- 
gneur's chair,  while  the  Little  Chemist  watched  and 
sighed  softly  in  a  corner,  now  and  again  rising  to  feel 
the  sick  man's  pulse  or  to  prepare  a  cordial.  The 
housekeeper  hovered  behind  the  high-backed  chair, 
and  when  the  Seigneur  dropped  his  handkerchief — 
now,  as  always,  of  the  exquisite  fashion  of  a  past  cen- 
tury— she  put  it  gently  in  his  hand. 

Once  when  the  Little  Chemist  touched  his  wrist,  his 


ING 

zens  in 

stalwart 

that  he 

wife  of 
he  thing 
rather  to 
her  little 
now  that 
years  his 
-re  mem- 
oot  inside 

was  kept 
0  read  and 
)t,  because 
i  his  flock, 
ing  of  the 
;he  miller's 
rred  rooms 
;hat  the  old 
;h  he  never 

.-ppingat 
Come— the 

ide  the  Sei- 
/atched  and 
|-ising  to  feel 
jrdial.     The 
lacked  chair, 
lidkerchief— 
If  a  past  cen- 

his  wrist,  his 


THE  HOUSE  WITH  THE  TALL  PORCH  203 

dark  eyes  rested  on  him  with  inquiry,  and  he  said: 
"  Soon  ?  " 

It  was  useless  trying  to  shirk  the  persistency  of  that 
look.  "  Eight  hours,  perhaps,  sir,"  the  Little  Chemist 
answered,  with  painful  shyness. 

The  Seigneur  seemed  to  draw  himself  up  a  little, 
and  his  hand  grasped  his  handkerchief  tightly  for  an 
instant ;  then  he  said :  "  Soon.     Thank  you." 

After  a  little,  his  eyes  turned  to  Medallion  and  he 
seemed  about  to  speak,  but  still  kept  silent.  His  chin 
dropped  on  his  breast,  and  for  a  time  he  was  motion- 
less and  shrunken ;  but  still  there  was  a  strange  little 
curl  of  pride — or  disdain — on  his  lips.  At  last  he  drew 
up  his  head,  his  shoulders  came  erect,  heavily,  to  the 
carved  back  of  the  chair,  where,  strange  to  say,  the 
Stations  of  the  Cross  were  figured,  and  he  said,  in 
a  cold,  ironical  voice :  "  The  Angel  of  Patience  has 
lied !  " 

The  evening  wore  on,  and  there  was  no  sound,  save 
the  ticking  of  the  clock,  the  beat  of  rain  upon  the 
windows,  and  the  deep  breathing  of  the  Seigneur. 
Presently  he  started,  his  eyes  opened  wide,  and  his 
whole  body  seemed  to  listen. 

"  I  heard  a  voice,"  he  said. 

"  No  one  spoke,  my  master,"  said  the  housekeeper. 

"  It  was  a  voice  without,"  he  said. 

"  Monsieur,"  said  the  Little  Chemist,  "  it  was  the 
wind  in  the  eaves." 

His  face  was  almost  painfully  eager  and  sensitively 
alert.  "  Hush !  "  he  said ;  "  I  hear  a  voice  in  the  tall 
porch !  " 

"  Sir,"  said  Medallion,  laying  a  hand  respectfully  on 
his  arm,  "  it  is  nothing." 

With  a  light  on  his  face  and  a  proud,  trembling 


204   THE  LANE  THAT  HAD  NO  TURNING 


energy,  he  got  to  his  feet.  "  It  is  the  voice  of  my  son,'* 
he  said.     "  Go — go,  and  bring  him  in." 

No  one  moved.  But  he  was  not  to  be  disobeyed. 
His  ears  had  been  growing  keener  as  he  neared  the 
subtle  atmosphere  of  that  Brink  where  man  strips  him- 
self to  the  soul  for  a  lonely  voyaging,  and  he  waved  the 
woman  to  the  door. 

"  Wait,"  he  said,  as  her  hand  fluttered  at  the  handle. 
**  Take  him  to  another  room.  Prepare  a  supper  such 
as  we  used  to  have.  When  it  is  ready  I  will  come. 
But,  listen,  and  obey.  Tell  him  not  that  I  have  but 
four  hours  of  life.     Go,  good  woman,  and  bring  him 


m 


>> 


It  was  as  he  said.  They  found  the  son  weak  and 
fainting,  fallen  within  the  porch — a  worn,  bearded 
man,  returned  from  failure  and  suffering  and  the  husks 
of  evil.  They  clothed  him  and  cared  for  him,  and 
strengthened  him  with  wine,  while  the  woman  wept 
over  him,  and  at  last  set  him  at  the  loaded,  well-lighted 
table.  Then  the  Seigneur  came  in,  leaning  his  arm  very 
lightly  on  that  of  Medallion  with  a  kind  of  kingly  air; 
and,  greeting  his  son  before  them  all,  as  if  they  had 
parted  yesterday,  sat  down.  For  an  hour  they  sat 
there,  and  the  Seigneur  talked  gaily  with  a  colour  to 
his  face,  and  his  great  eyes  glowing.  At  last  he  rose, 
lifted  his  glass,  and  said :  "  The  Angel  of  Patience  is 
wise.     I  drink  to  my  son !  " 

He  v/as  about  to  say  something  more,  but  a  sudden 
whiteness  passed  over  his  face.  He  drank  off  the  wine, 
and  as  he  put  the  glass  down  shivered,  and  fell  back  in 
his  chair. 

"  Two  hours  short,  Chemist !  "  he  said,  and  smiled, 
and  was  Still. 


\ 


\^ 


SlING 

my  son," 

isobeyed. 
iared  the 
rips  liim- 
vaved  the 

le  handle, 
pper  such 
m\\  come, 
have  but 
brmg  him 

weak  and 
n,  bearded 
i  the  husks 
-  him,  and 
oman  wept 
Arell-lighted 
lis  arm  very 

kingly  air; 
if  they  had 
ur  they  sat 

a  colour  to 
last  he  rose, 
t  Patience  is 

DUt  a  sudden 

off  the  wine, 

d  fell  back  in 

i,  and  smiled, 


Ik 


PARPOiN  THE   DWARF 


m 


] 

ki 
dv 
H 
§t: 

wi] 

SOI 

soil 
I 

Jul 
hei 
Sh( 
la 

witl 
froi 


fess 
v/erl 
hadf 
the 

hop! 

ponf 

coc] 

the 


* 


PARPON   THE   DWARF 


PARPON  perched  in  a  room  at  the  top  of  the  mill. 
He  could  see  every  house  in  the  village,  and  he 
knew  people  a  long  distance  off.  He  was  a  droll 
dwarf,  and,  in  his  way,  had  good  times  i^.  the  world. 
He  turned  the  misery  of  the  world  into  a  game,  and 
grinned  at  it  from  his  high  little  eyrie  with  the  dormer 
window.  He  had  lived  with  Farette,  the  miller,  for 
some  years,  serving  him  with  a  kind  of  humble  in- 
solence. 

It  was  not  a  joyful  day  for  Farette  when  he  married 
Julie.  She  led  him  a  pretty  travel.  He  had  started  as 
her  master;  he  ended  by  being  her  slave  and  victim. 
She  was  a  wilful  wife.  She  had  made  the  Seigneur  de 
la  Riviere,  of  the  House  with  the  Tall  Porch,  to  quarrel 
with  his  son  Armand,  so  that  Armand  disappeared 
from  Pontiac  for  years. 

When  that  happened  she  had  already  stopped  con- 
fessing to  the  good  Cure ;  so  it  may  be  guessed  there 
v/ere  things  she  did  not  care  to  tell,  and  for  which  she 
had  no  repentance.  But  Parpon  knew,  and  Medallion 
the  auctioneer  guessed ;  and  the  Little  Chemist's  wife 
hoped  that  it  was  not  so.  When  Julie  looked  at  Par- 
pon, as  he  perched  on  a  chest  of  drawers,  with  his  head 
cocked  and  his  eyes  blinking,  she  knew  that  he  read 
the  truth.    But  she  did  not  know  all  that  was  in  his 


••■?>• 


208   THE  LANE  THAT  HAD  NO  TURNING 


head;  so  she  said  sharp  things  to  him,  as  she  did  to 
everybody,  for  she  had  a  very  poor  opinion  of  the 
world,  and  thought  all  as  flippant  as  herself.  She  took 
nothing  seriously;  she  was  too  vain.  Except  that  she 
was  sorry  Armand  was  gone,  she  rather  plumed  herself 
on  having  separated  the  Seigneur  and  his  son — it  was 
something  to  have  been  the  pivot  in  a  tragedy.  There 
came  others  to  the  village,  as,  for  instance,  a  series  of 
clerks  to  the  Avocat ;  but  she  would  not  decline  from 
Armand  upon  them.  She  merely  made  them  miser- 
able. 

But  she  did  not  grow  prettier  as  time  went  on. 
Even  Annette,  the  sad  wife  of  the  drunken  Benoit, 
kept  her  line  looks  ;  but  then,  Annette's  life  was  a  thing 
for  a  book,  and  she  had  a  beautiful  child.  You  can- 
not keep  this  from  the  face  of  a  woman.  Nor  can 
you  keep  the  other:  when  the  heart  rusts  the  rust 
shows. 

After  a  good  many  years,  Armand  de  la  Riviere  came 
back  in  time  to  see  his  father  die.  Then  Julie  picked 
out  her  smartest  ribbons,  capered  at  the  mirror,  and 
dusted  her  face  with  oatmeal,  because  she  thought  that 
he  would  ask  her  to  meet  him  at  the  Bois  Noir,  as  he 
had  done  long  ago.  The  days  passed,  and  he  did  not 
come.  When  she  saw  Armand  at  the  funeral — a  tall 
man  with  a  dark  beard  and  a  grave  face,  not  like  the 
Armand  she  had  known,  he  seemed  a  great  distance 
from  her,  though  she  could  almost  have  touched  him 
once  as  he  turned  from  the  grave.  She  would  have 
liked  to  throw  herself  into  his  arms,  and  cry  before 
them  all,  "  Mon  Armand ! "  and  go  away  with  him  to 
the  House  with  the  Tall  Porch.  She  did  not  care 
about  Farette,  the  mumbling  old  man  who  hungered 
for  money,  having  ceased  to  hunger  for  anything  else 


ING 


PARPON   THE   DWARF 


209 


did  to 

of  the 
he  took 
tb-jt  she 
1  herself 
— it  was 
There 
series  of 
ine  from 
m  miser- 
went  on. 
1  Benoit, 
as  a  thing 
You  can- 

Nor  can 
J  the  rust 

vierecame 
lUe  picked 
lirror,  and 
ought  that 
Sloir,  as  he 
he  did  not 
iral— a  tall 
lot  like  the 
at  distance 
)iiched  him 
would  have 

cry  before 
tfvith  him  to 
id  not  care 

o  hungered 


lythin 


g  else 


— even  for  Julie,  who  laughed  and  shut  her  door  in 
his  face,  and  cowed  him. 

After  the  funeral  Julie  had  a  strange  feeling.  She 
had  not  much  brains,  but  she  had  some  shrewdness, 
and  she  felt  her  romance  askew.  She  stood  before  the 
mirror,  rubbing  her  face  with  oatmeal  and  frowning 
hard.  Presently  a  voice  behind  her  said :  "  Madame 
Julie,  shall  I  bring  another  bag  of  meal  ?  " 

She  turned  quickly,  and  saw  Parpon  on  a  table  in 
the  corner,  his  legs  drawn  up  to  his  chin,  his  black 
eyes  twinkling. 

"  Idiot !  "  she  cried,  and  threw  the  meal  at  him.  He 
had  a  very  long,  quick  arm.  He  caught  the  basin  as 
it  came,  but  the  meal  covered  him.  He  blew  it  from 
his  beard,  laughing  softly,  and  twirled  the  basin  on  a 
finger-point. 

**  Like  that,  there  will  need  two  bags !  "  he  said. 

"  Imbecile !  "  she  cried,  standing  angry  in  the  centre 
of  the  room. 

"  Ho,  ho !  what  a  big  word !  See  what  it  is  to  have 
the  tongue  of  fashion !  " 

She  looked  helplessly  round  the  room. 

"  I  will  kill  you !  " 

"  Let  us  die  together,"  answered  Parpon ;  "  we  are 
both  sad." 

She  snatched  the  poker  from  the  fire,  and  ran  at  him. 
He  caught  her  wrists  with  his  great  hands,  big  enough 
for  tall  Medallion,  and  held  her. 

"  I  said  *  together,'  "  he  chuckled ;  "  not  one  before 
the  other.  We  might  jump  into  the  flume  at  the  mill, 
or  go  over  the  dam  at  the  Bois  Noir;  or,  there  is 
Farette's  musket  which  he  is  cleaning — gracious !  but 
it  will  kick  when  it  fires,  it  is  so  old !  " 

She  sank  to  the  floor.      "  Why  does  he  clean  the 

14  .;* 


2IO  THE  L'ANE  THAT  HAD  NO  TURNING 


musket?  "  she  asked ;  fear,  and  something  wicked  too, 
in  her  eye.  Her  fingers  ran  forgetfully  through  the 
hair  on  her  forehead,  pushing  it  back,  and  the  marks 
of  smallpox  showed.  The  contrast  with  her  smooth 
cheeks  gave  her  a  weird  look.  Parpon  got  quickly  on 
the  table  again  and  sat  like  a  Turk,  with  a  furtive  eye 
on  her. 

''  Who  can  tell !  "  he  said  at  last.  "  That  musket 
has  not  been  fired  for  years.  It  would  not  kill  a  bird ; 
the  shot  would  scatter :  but  it  might  kill  a  man — a  man 
is  bigger." 

"  Kill  a  man !  "  She  showed  her  white  teeth  witli 
a  savage  little  smile. 

"  Of  course  it  is  all  guess.  I  asked  Farette  what  he 
would  shoot,  and  he  said,  *  Nothing  good  to  eat.'  I 
said  I  would  eat  what  he  killed.  Then  he  got  pretty 
mad,  and  said  I  couldn't  eat  my  own  head.  Holy! 
that  was  funny  for  Farette.  Then  I  told  him  there 
was  no  good  going  to  the  Bois  Noir,  for  there  would 
be  nothing  to  shoot.  Well,  did  I  speak  true,  Madame 
Julie  ?  " 

She  was  conscious  of  something  new  in  Parpon. 
She  could  not  define  it.  Presently  she  got  to  her 
feet  and  said :  "  I  don't  believe  you — you're  a 
monkey ! " 

"  A  monkey  can  climb  a  tree  quick ;  a  man  has  to 
take  the  shot  as  it  comes."  He  stretched  up  his  power- 
ful arms,  with  a  swift  motion  as  of  climbing,  laughed, 
and  added :  "  Madame  Julie,  Farette  has  poor  eyes ;  he 
could  not  see  a  hole  in  a  ladder.  But  he  has  a  kink 
in  his  head  about  the  Bois  Noir.  People  have 
talked " 

"  Pshaw !  "  Julie  said,  crumpling  her  apron  and' 
throwing  it  out ;  "  he  is  a  child  and  a  coward.    He 


ING 


PARPON   THE   DWARF 


211 


:ed  too, 
jigh  the 
z  marks 
smooth 
lickly  on 
rtive  eye 

t  musket 
ill  a  bird ; 
n — a  man 

teeth  with 

te  what  he 
to  eat.'     1 
got  pretty 
ad.    Holy  I 
,  him  there 
:here  would 
le,  Madame 

in  Parpon. 

got  to  her 

^--you're    a 

[man  has  to 
3  his  power- 
_ig,  laughed, 
[oor  eyes ;  he 
;  has  a  kink 
'eople   have 

apron  and 
•oward.    He 


should  not  play  with  a  gun;  it  might  go  off  and  hit 
him." 

Parpon  hopped  down  and  trotted  to  the  door.  Then 
he  turned  and  said,  with  a  sly  gurgle :  **  Farette  keeps 
at  that  gun.  What  is  the  good !  There  will  be  no- 
body at  the  Bois  Noir  any  more.  I  will  go  and  tell 
him." 

She  rushed  at  him  with  fury,  but  seeing  Annette 
Benoit  in  the  road,  she  stood  still  and  beat  her  foot 
angrily  on  the  doorstep.  She  was  ripe  for  a  quarrel, 
and  she  would  say  something  hateful  to  Annette ;  for 
she  never  forgot  that  Farette  had  asked  Annette  to  be 
his  wife  before  herself  was  considered.  She  smoothed 
out  her  wrinkled  apron,  and  waited. 

"  Good  day,  Annette,"  she  said  loftily. 

"  Good  day,  Julie,"  was  the  quiet  reply. 

"Will  you  come  in?" 

"  I  am  going  to  the  mill  for  flax-seed.  Benoit  has 
rheumatism." 

"  Poor  Benoit ! "  said  Julie,  with  a  meaning  toss  of 
her  head. 

"  Poor  Benoit !  "  responded  Annette  gently.  Her 
voice  was  always  sweet.  One  would  never  have  known 
that  Benoit  was  a  drunken  idler. 

"  Come  in.  I  will  give  you  the  meal  from  my  own. 
Then  it  will  cost  you  nothing,"  said  Julie,  with  an 
air. 

"  Thank  you,  Julie,  but  I  would  rather  pay." 

"  I  do  not  sell  my  meal,"  answered  Julie.  "  What's 
a  few  pounds  of  meal  to  the  wife  of  Farette  ?  I  will  get 
it  for  you.     Come  in,  Annette." 

She  turned  towards  the  door,  then  stopped  all  at 
once.  There  was  the  oatmeal  which  she  had  thrown 
at  Parpon,  the  basin,  and  the  poker.     She  wished  she 


212    THE  LANE  THAT  HAD  NO  TURNING 


( * 


had  not  asked  Annette  in.  But  in  some  things  she  had 
a  cjuick  wit,  and  she  iuirrictl  to  say:  "It  was  that 
yellow  cat  of  Tarpon's.  It  spilt  the  meal,  and  1  went 
at  it  with  the  poker." 

Perhaps  Annette  believed  her.  She  did  not  think 
about  it  one  way  or  the  other ;  her  mind  was  with  the 
sick  Benoit.  She  nodded  and  said  nothing,  hoping 
that  the  flax-seed  would  be  got  at  once.  But  when 
she  saw  that  Julie  expected  an  answer,  she  said,  "  Ce- 
cilia, my  little  girl,  has  a  black  cat — so  handsome.  It 
came  from  the  house  of  the  poor  Seigneur  de  la  Ri- 
viere a  year  ago.  We  took  it  back,  but  it  would  not 
stay." 

Annette  spoke  simply  and  frankly,  but  her  words 
cut  like  a  knife. 

Julie  responded,  with  a  click  of  malice :  "  Look  out 
that  the  black  cat  doesn't  kill  the  dear  Cecilia." 

Annette  started,  but  she  did  not  believe  that  cats 
sucked  the  life  from  children's  lungs,  and  she  replied 
calmly :  "  I  am  not  afraid ;  the  good  God  keeps  my 
child."  She  then  got  up  and  came  to  Julie,  and  said : 
"  It  is  a  pity,  Julie,  that  you  have  not  a  child.  A  child 
makes  all  right." 

Julie  was  wild  to  say  a  fierce  thing,  for  it  seemed 
that  Annette  w^as  setting  ofif  Benoit  against  Farette; 
but  the  next  moment  she  grew  hot,  her  eyes  smarted, 
and  there  was  a  hint  of  trouble  at  her  throat.  She  had 
lived  very  fast  in  the  last  few  hours,  and  it  was  telling 
on  her.  She  could  not  rule  herself — she  could  not  play 
a  part  so  well  as  she  wished.  She  had  not  before  felt 
the  thing  that  gave  a  new  pulse  to  her  body  and  a  joy- 
ful pain  at  her  breasts.  Her  eyes  got  thickly  blurred 
so  that  £'he  could  not  see  Annette,  and,  without  a  word, 
she  hurried  to  get  the  meal.    She  was  silent  when  she 


ING 


PARPON   THE   DWARF 


213 


ihc  had 

as  th^t 
1  went 

3t  think 
with  the 
,  hoping 
,ut  when 
lid,  "  Ce- 
lome.     It 
cle  la  Ri- 
ATOuld  not 

lier  words 

'  Look  out 

»> 
la. 

e  that  cats 
|shc  rephcd 
keeps  tny 
,  and  said : 
A  child 

,  it  seemed 
1st  Farette ; 
ies  smarted, 
L     She  had 
\  was  teUin^ 
[uld  not  play 
It  before  felt 
[y  and  a  joy- 
[ckly  blurred 
Ihout  a  word, 
Tut  when  she 


came  back.  She  put  the  meal  into  Annette's  hands. 
She  felt  that  siie  would  like  to  talk  of  Armand.  She 
knew  now  there  was  no  evil  thought  in  Annette.  She 
did  not  like  her  more  for  that,  but  she  felt  she  must 
talk,  and  Annette  was  safe.  So  she  took  her  arm. 
'•  Sit  down,  Annette,"  she  said.  "  You  come  so  sel- 
dom." 

"  But  there  is  Benoit,  and  the  child " 

"  The  child  has  the  black  cat  from  the  House !  " 
There  was  again  a  sly  ring  to  Julie's  voice,  and  she 
almost  pressed  Annette  into  a  chair. 

"  Well,  it  must  only  be  a  minute." 

"  Vv^ere  you  at  the  funeral  to-day  ?  "  Julie  began. 

"  No ;  I  was  nursing  Benoit.  But  the  poor  Seign- 
eur! They  say  he  died  without  confession.  No  on^^ 
was  there  except  M'sieu'  Medallion,  the  Little  Chemist, 
old  Sylvie,  and  M'sieu*  Armand.  But,  of  course,  you 
have  heard  everything." 

"  Is  that  all  you  know?  "  queried  Julie. 

"  Not  much  more.  I  go  out  little,  and  no  one  comes 
to  me  except  the  Little  Chemist's  wife — she  is  a  good 
woman." 

"Wliat  did  she  say?" 

"  Only  something  of  the  night  the  Seigneur  died. 
He  was  sitting  in  his  chair,  not  afraid,  but  very  sad,  we 
can  guess.  By-and-by  he  raised  his  head  quickly.  *  I 
hear  a  voice  in  the  Tall  Porch,'  he  said.  They  thought 
he  was  dreaming.  But  he  said  other  things,  and  cried 
again  that  he  heard  his  son's  voice  in  the  Porch.  They 
went  and  found  M'sieu'  Armand.  Then  a  great  supper 
was  got  ready,  and  he  sat  very  grand  at  the  head  of 
the  table,  but  died  quickly,  when  making  a  grand 
speech.  It  was  strange  he  was  so  happy,  for  he  did 
not  confess — he  hadn't  absolution !  " 


214   THE  LANE  THAT  HAD  NO  TURNING 


This  was  more  than  Julie  had  heard.  She  showed 
excitement. 

'*  The  Seigneur  and  M'sicu'  Armand  were  good 
friends  when  he  died?  "  she  asked. 

*'  Quite." 

All  at  once  Annette  remembered  the  old  talk  about 
Armand  and  Julie.  She  was  confused.  She  wished 
she  could  get  up  and  run  away ;  but  haste  would  look 
strange. 

"  You  were  at  the  funeral  ? "  she  added  after  a 
minute. 

"  Everybody  was  there." 

**  I  suppose  M'sicu'  Armand  looks  very  fine  and 
strange  after  his  long  travel,"  said  Annette  shyly,  rising 
to  go. 

"  He  was  always  the  grandest  gentleman  in  the 
province,"  answered  Julie,  in  her  old  vain  manner. 
"  You  should  have  seen  the  women  look  at  him  to-day  1 
But  they  are  nothing  to  him — he  is  not  easy  to 
please !  " 

"  Good  day,"  said  Annette,  shocked  and  sad,  moving 
fr  "■<  the  door.  Suddenly  she  turned,  and  laid  a  hand 
on  Julie's  arm.  "  Come  and  see  my  sweet  Cecilia," 
she  said.     "  She  is  gay ;  she  will  amuse  you." 

She  was  thinking  again  what  a  pity  it  was  that  Julie 
had  no  child. 

"To  see  Cecilia  and  the  black  cat?  Verv  well — 
some  day." 

You  could  not  have  told  what  she  meant.  But,  as 
Annette  turned  away  again,  she  glanced  at  the  mill; 
and  there,  high  up  in  the  dormer  window,  sat  Parpon, 
his  yellow  cat  on  his  shoulder,  grinning  down  at  her. 

She  wheeled  and  went  into  the  house. 


sIlNG 
showed 

jre  good 

alk  about 
ic  wished 
-ouUl  look 

id   after  a 

y  fine  and 
hyly,  rising 

Tian  in  the 
lin  manner, 
him  to-day  I 
lot  easy  to 

sad,  moving 

laid  a  hand 

leet  CeciUa," 

fas  that  Julie 

[Very  well^ 

int.    But,  as 
at  the  mill; 
,  sat  Parpon, 
)wn  at  her. 


PARPON   THE   DWARF 


II 


215 


Parpon  sat  in  the  dormer  window  for  a  long  time, 
the  cat  purrinpf  aj^ainst  his  head,  and  not  seeming  the 
least  afraid  of  falling',  tliougli  its  master  was  well  out 
on  the  window-ledge.     I  le  kept  mum!)ling  to  himself: 

"  Ho!  ho!  I'arette  is  below  there  with  the  gun,  rui)- 
bing  and  rubbing  at  tlie  rust!  Holy  Mother,  how  it 
will  kiek  !  But  he  will  only  meddle.  If  she  set  her 
eye  at  him  and  come  up  bold  and  said,  '  I'^arette,  go 
and  have  your  whiskey-wine,  and  then  to  bed !  '  he 
would  sneak  away.  ihit  he  has  heard  something. 
Some  fool,  perhaps  that  I'cnolt — no,  he  is  sick, — per- 
haps the  herb-woman  has  been  talking,  and  he  thinks 
he  will  make  a  fnss.  But  it  will  be  nothing.  And 
M'sieu'  Armand,  will  he  look  at  her!  "  He  chuckled 
at  the  cat,  which  set  its  head  back  and  hissed  in  reply. 
Then  he  sang  something  to  himself. 

Parpon  was  a  poor  little  dwarf  with  a  big  head, 
but  he  had  one  thing  which  made  up  for  all,  though 
no  one  knew  it — or,  at  least,  he  thought  so.  The  Cure 
himself  did  not  know.  He  had  a  beautiful  voice. 
Even  in  speaking  it  was  pleasant  to  hear,  though  he 
roughened  it  in  a  way.  It  pleased  him  that  he  had 
something  of  which  the  finest  man  or  woman  would 
be  glad.  He  had  said  to  himself  many  times  that  even 
Armand  de  la  Riviere  would  envy  him. 

Sometimes  Parpon  went  away  off  into  the  Bois  Noir, 
and,  perched  there  in  a  tree,  sang  away — a  man, 
shaped  something  like  an  animal,  with  a  voice  like  a 
muffled  silver  bell. 

Some  of  his  songs  he  had  made  himself :  wild  things, 
broken  thoughts,  not  altogether  human ;  the  language 


2i6   THE  LANE  THAT  HAD  NO  TURNING 

of  a  world  between  man  and  the  spirits.  But  it  was  all 
pleasant  to  hear,  even  when,  at  times,  there  ran  a  weird, 
dark  thread  through  the  woof.  No  one  in  the  valley 
had  ever  heard  the  thing  he  sang  softly  as  he  sat  look- 
ing down  at  Julie: 


"  The  little  white  smoke  blows  there,  blows  here, 
The  little  blue  wolf  comt:;  flown  — 
C'csi  la  ! 
And  the  hill-dwarf  laughs  in  the  young  wife's  ear, 
When  the  devil  comes  back  to  town — 
Cest  Ih  !  " 

It  was  crooned  quietly,  but  it  was  distinct  and  melo- 
dious, and  the  cat  purred  an  accompaniment,  its  head 
thrust  into  his  thick  black  hair.  From  where  Parpon 
sat  he  could  see  the  House  with  the  Tall  Porch,  and, 
as  he  sang,  his  eyes  ran  from  the  miller's  doorway  to  it. 

Ofif  in  the  grounds  of  the  dead  Seigneur's  manor  he 
could  see  a  man  push  the  pebbles  with  his  foot,  or 
twist  the  branch  of  a  shrub  thoughtfully  as  he  walked. 
At  last  another  man  entered  the  garden.  The  two 
greeted  warmly,  and  passed  up  and  down  together. 


Ill 


"  My  good  friend,"  said  the  Cure,  "  it  is  too  late  to 
mourn  for  those  lost  years.  Nothing  can  give  them 
back.  As  Parpon  the  dwarf  said — you  remember 
him,  a  wise  little  man,  that  Parpon — as  he  said  one 
day,  *  For  everything  you  lose  you  get  something,  if 
only  how  to  laugh  at  yourself! '  " 

Armand  nodded  thoughtfully,  and  answered,  "  Yon 
are  right — you  and  Parpon.     But  I  cannot  forgive 


ini 


IS 


NING 


PARPON   THE   DWARF 


217 


it  was  all 

n  a  weird, 
the  valley 
I  sat  look- 


■e, 


s  ear, 


t  and  melo- 
nt,  its  head 
lere  Parpon 
Porch,  and, 
)orway  to  it. 
•'s  manor  he 
his  foot,  or 
s  he  walked. 
I.    The  two 
L  together. 


is  too  late  to 

an  give  them 

u  remember 

he  said  one 

;omething,  if 

wered,  "  Yoit 
mnot  forgive 


myself ;  he  was  so  fine  a  man :  tall,  with  a  grand  look, 
and  a  tongue  like  a  book.  Ah,  yes,  I  can  laugh  at 
myself — for  a  fool." 

He  thrust  his  hands  into  his  pockets,  and  tapped 
the  ground  nervously  with  his  foot,  shrugging  his 
shoulders  a  little.  The  priest  took  off  his  hat  and 
made  the  sacred  gesture,  his  lips  moving.  Armand 
caught  ofTf  his  hat  also,  and  said,  "  You  pray — for 
him?" 

"  For  the  peace  of  a  good  man's  soul." 

"  He  did  not  confess ;  he  had  no  rites  of  the  Church ; 
he  had  refused  you  many  years." 

"  My  son,  he  had  a  confessor." 

Armand  raised  his  eyebrows.  "  They  told  me  of 
no  one." 

"  It  was  the  Angel  of  Patience." 

They  walked  on  again  for  a  time  without  a  word. 
At  last  the  Cure  said,  **  You  will  remain  here  ?  " 

"  I  cannot  tell.  This  '  here '  is  a  small  world,  and 
the  little  life  may  fret  me.  Nor  do  I  know  what  I  have 
of  this  " — he  waved  his  hands  towards  the  house — "  or 
of  my  father's  property.  I  may  need  to  be  a  wanderer 
again." 

"  God  forbid !     Plave  you  not  seen  the  will  ?  " 

"  I  have  got  no  farther  than  his  grave,"  was  the  som- 
bre reply. 

The  priest  sighed.  They  paced  the  walk  again  In 
silence.  At  last  the  Cure  said :  "  You  will  make  the 
place  cheerful,  as  it  once  was." 

"  You  are  persistent,"  replied  the  young  man,  smil- 
ing. **  V/hoever  lives  here  should  make  it  less  gloomy." 

"  We  shall  soon  know  who  is  to  live  here.  See,  there 
is  Monsieur  Garon,  and  Monsieur  Medallion  also." 

"  The  Avocat  to  tell  secrets,  the  auctioneer  to  sell 


/ 


2i3    THE  LANE  THAT  HAD  NO  TURNING 


.1 


m 


them — eh  ?  "  Armand  went  forward  to  the  gate.  Like 
most  people,  he  found  MedaUion  interesting,  and  the 
Avocat  and  he  were  old  friends. 

"  You  did  not  send  for  me,  monsieur,"  said  the 
Avocat  timidly,  "but  I  thought  it  well  to  come, that  you 
might  know  how  things  are ;  and  Monsieur  Medallion 
came  because  he  is  a  witness  to  the  will,  and,  in  a  case," 
— here  the  little  man  coughed  nervously, — "  joint 
executor  with  monsieur  le  Cure.' 

They  entered  the  house.  In  a  businesslike  way 
■Armand  motioned  them  to  chairs,  opened  the  curtains, 
and  rang  the  bell.  The  old  housekeeper  appeared,  a 
sorrowful  joy  in  her  face,  and  Armand  said,  "  Give  us 
a  bottle  of  the  white-top,  Sy^vie,  if  there  is  any  left." 

"  There  is  plenty,  monsieur,"  she  said ;  "  none  has 
been  drunk  these  twelve  years." 

The  Avocat  coughed,  and  said  hesitatingly  to  Ar- 
mand :  "  I  asked  Parpon  the  dwarf  to  come,  monsieur. 
There  is  a  reason." 

Armand  raised  his  eyebrows  in  surprise.     "  Very 
good,"  he  said.     "  When  will  he  be  here?  " 
"  He  is  waiting  at  the  Louis  Quinze  hotel." 
"  I  will  send  for  him,"  said  Armand,  and  gave  the 
message  to  Sylvie,  v,ho  was  entering  the  room. 

After  they  had  drunk  the  wine  placed  before  them, 
there  was  silence  for  a  moment,  for  all  were  wondering 
why  Parpon  should  be  remembered  in  the  Seigneur's 
will. 

"  Well,"  said  Medallion  at  last,  "  a  strange  little  dog 
is  Parpon.  I  could  surprise  you  about  him — and,  there 
isn't  any  reason  why  I  should  keep  the  thing  to  myself. 
One  day  I  was  up  among  the  rocks,  looking  for  a 
straved  horse.  I  got  tired,  and  lay  down  in  the  shade 
of  the  Rock  of  Red  Pigeons — you  know  it.     I  fell 


tuammatKm^tm 


PARPON   THE   DWARF 


219 


asleep.  Something  waked  me.  I  got  up  and  heard 
the  finest  singing  you  can  guess :  not  Hke  any  I  ever 
heard;  a  wild,  beautiful,  shivery  sort  of  thing.  I  lis- 
tened for  a  long  time.  At  last  it  stopped.  Then 
something  slid  down  the  rock.  I  peeped  out,  and  saw 
Parpon  toddling  away." 

The  Cure  stared  incredulously,  the  Avocat  took  off 
his  glasses  and  tapped  his  lips  musingly,  Armand 
whistled  softly. 

"  So,"  said  Armand  at  last,  "  we  have  the  jewel  in 
the  toad's  head.  The  clever  imp  hid  it  all  these  years 
— even  from  you,  monsieur  le  Cure." 

"  Even  from  me,"  said  the  Cure,  smiling.  Then, 
gravely :  "  It  is  strange,  the  angel  in  the  stunted  body." 

"  Are  you  sure  it's  an  angel  ?  "  said  Armand. 

"  Whoever  knew  Parpon  do  any  harm  ?  "  queried  the 
Cure. 

"  He  has  always  been  kind  to  the  poor,"  put  in  the 
Avocat. 

"  With  the  miller's  flour,"  laughed  Medallion :  "  a 
pardonable  sin.'  He  gave  a  quizzical  look  at  the 
Cure. 

"  Do  you  remember  the  words  of  Parpon's  song  ?  " 
asked  Armand. 

"  Only  a  few  lines ;  and  those  not  easy  to  understand, 
unless  one  had  an  inkling." 

"  Had  you  the  inkling^  " 

"  Perhaps,  monsieur,"  replied  Medallion  seriously. 

They  eyed  each  other. 

"  We  will  have  Parpon  in  after  the  will  is  read,"  said 
Armand  suddenly,  looking  at  the  Avocat.  The  Avocat 
drew  the  deed  from  his  pocket.  He  looked  up  hesi- 
tatingly, and  then  said  to  Armand,  "  You  insist  on  it 
being  read  now?" 


220  THE  LANE  THAT  HAD  NO  TURNING 


J 


Armand  nodded  coolly,  after  a  quick  glance  at 
Medallion.  Then  the  Avocat  began,  and  read  to  that 
point  where  the  Seigneur  bequeathed  all  his  property 
to  his  son,  should  he  return — on  a  condition.  When 
the  Avocat  came  to  the  condition  Armand  stopped 
him. 

"  I  do  not  know  in  the  least  what  it  may  be,"  he  said ; 
"  but  there  is  only  one  by  which  I  could  feel  bound. 
I  will  tell  you.  My  father  and  I  quarrelled  " — here 
he  paused  for  a  moment,  clenching  his  hands  before 
him  on  the  table — "  about  a  woman ;  and  years  of 
misery  came.  I  was  to  blame  in  not  obeying  him.  I 
ought  not  to  have  given  any  cause  for  gossip.  What- 
ever the  condition  as  to  that  matter  may  be,  I  will  ful- 
fil it.  My  father  is  more  to  me  than  any  woman  in 
the  world ;  his  love  of  me  was  greater  than  that  of  any 
woman.     I  know  the  world — and  women." 

There  was  a  silence.  He  waved  his  hand  to  the 
Avocat  to  go  on,  and  as  he  did  so  the  Cure  caught 
his  arm  with  a  quick,  affectionate  gesture.  Then  Mon- 
sieur Garon  read  the  conditions :  That  Farette,  the 
miller,  should  have  a  deed  of  the  land  on  which  his 
mill  was  built,  with  the  dam  of  the  mill — provided  that 
Armand  should  never  so  much  as  by  a  word  again 
address  Julie,  the  miller's  wife.  If  he  agreed  to  the 
condition,  with  solemn  oath  before  the  Cure,  his  bless- 
ing would  rest  upon  his  dear  son,  whom  he  still  hoped 
to  see  before  he  died. 

When  the  reading  ceased  there  was  silence  for  a 
moment,  then  Armand  stood  up,  and  took  the  will 
from  the  Avocat;  but  instantly,  without  looking  at  it, 
handed  it  back.  "  The  reading  is  not  finished,"  he 
said.  "  And  if  I  do  not  accept  the  condition,  what 
then?" 


tovl^v"- 


aNG 


PARPON   THE   DWARF 


221 


iance  at 

i  to  that 

property 

When 

stopped 

'  he  said ; 
el  bound, 
d  " — here 
Lds  before 
years  of 
g  him.     I 
3.    What- 
^  I  will  f ul- 
woman  in 
that  of  any 

and  to  the 
Lire  caught 
'hen  Mon- 
arette,  the 
which  his 
ovided  that 
vord  again 
eed  to  the 
h,  his  bless- 
still  hoped 

lence  for  a 
,k  the  will 

oking  at  it, 
ished,"  he 
ition,  what 


Again  Monsieur  Garon  read,  his  voice  trembling  a 
little.  The  words  of  the  will  ran:  "  But  if  this  con- 
dition be  not  satisfied,  I  bequeath  to  my  son  Armand 
the  house  known  as  the  House  with  the  Tall  Porch, 
and  the  land,  according  to  the  deed  thereof;  and  the 
residue  of  my  property — with  the  exception  of  two 
thousand  dollars,  which  I  leave  to  the  Cure  of  the 
parish,  the  good  Monsieur  Fabre — I  bequeath  to  Par- 
pon  the  dwarf." 

Then  followed  a  clause  providing  that  in  any  case 
Parpon  should  have  in  fee  simple  the  land  known  as 
the  Bois  Noir,  and  the  hut  thereon. 

Armand  sprang  to  his  feet  in  surprise,  blurting  out 
something,  then  sat  down,  quietly  took  the  will,  and 
read  it  through  carefully.  When  he  had  finished  he 
looked  inquiringly,  first  at  Monsieur  Garon,  then  at  the 
Cure. 

"  Why  Parpon  ?  "  he  said  searchingly. 

The  Cure,  amazed,  spread  out  his  hands  in  a  helpless 
way.  At  that  moment  Sylvie  announced  Parpon. 
Armand  asked  that  he  should  be  sent  in.  "  We'll 
talk  of  the  will  afterwards,"  he  added. 

Parpon  trotted  in,  the  door  closed,  and  he  stood 
blinking  at  them.  Armand  put  a  stool  on  the  ta'^-i'^. 
"  Sit  here,  Parpon,"  he  said.  Medallion  caught  the 
dwarf  under  the  arms  and  lifted  him  on  the  table. 

Parpon  looked  at  Armand  furtively.  "  The  wild 
hawk  comes  back  to  its  nest,"  he  said.  "  Well,  well, 
what  is  it  you  want  with  the  poor  Parpon  ?  " 

He  sat  down  and  dropped  his  chin  in  his  hands, 
looking  round  keenly.  Armand  nodded  to  Medallion, 
and  Medallion  to  the  priest,  but  the  priest  nodded  back 
again.  Then  Medallion  said,  "  You  and  I  know  the 
Rock  of  Red  Pigeons,  Parpon.     It  is  a  good  place  to 


222   THE  LANE  THAT  HAD  NO  TURNING 


perch.  One's  voice  is  all  to  one's  self  there,  as  you 
know.  Welf,  sing  us  the  song  of  the  little  brown 
diver." , 

Parpon's  hands  twitched  in  his  beard.  He  looked 
fixedly  at  Medallion.  Presently  he  turned  towards 
the  Cure,  and  shrank  so  that  he  looked  smaller  still. 

"  It's  all  right,  little  son,"  said  the  Cure  kindly. 

Turning  sharply  on  Medallion  :  *'  When  was  it  you 
heard?  "  he  said. 

Medallion  told  him.  He  nodded,  then  sat  very  still. 
They  said  nothing,  but  watched  him.  They  saw  his 
eyes  grow  distant  and  absorbed,  and  his  face  took  on 
a  shining  look,  so  that  its  ugliness  was  almost  beauti- 
ful. All  at  once  he  slid  from  the  stool  and  crouched 
on  his  knees.  Then  he  sent  out  a  low  long  note,  like 
the  toll  of  the  bell-bird.  From  that  time  no  one  stirred 
as  he  sang,  but  sat  and  watched  him.  They  did  not 
even  hear  Sylvie  steal  in  gently  and  stand  in  the  cur- 
tains at  the  door. 

The  song  was  weird,  with  a  strange  thrilling  charm ; 
it  had  the  slow  dignity  of  a  chant,  the  roll  of  an  epic, 
the  delight  of  wild  beauty.  It  told  of  the  little  good 
Folk  of  the  Scarlet  Hills,  in  vague  allusive  phrases : 
their  noiseless  wanderings ;  their  sojourning  with  the 
eagle,  the  wolf,  and  the  deer;  their  triumph  over  the 
winds,  the  whirlpools,  and  the  spirits  of  evil  fame.  It 
filled  the  room  with  the  cry  of  the  west  wind ;  it  called 
out  of  the  frozen  seas  ghosts  of  forgotten  worlds ;  it 
coaxed  the  soft  breezes  out  of  the  South ;  it  made  them 
all  to  be  at  the  whistle  of  the  Scarlet  Hunter  who  ruled 
the  North. 

Then,  passing  through  veil  after  veil  of  mystery,  it 
told  of  a  grand  Seigneur  whose  boat  was  overturned  in 
a  whirlpool,  and  was  saved  by  a  little  brown  diver. 


PARPON    THE    DWARF 


'>') 


23 


And  the  end  of  it  all,  and  the  heart  of  it  all,  was  in  the 
last  few  lines,  clear  of  allegory : 

"  And  the  wheel  goes  round  in  the  village  mill, 

And  the  little  brown  diver  he  tells  the  grain     .     .     . 
And  the  grand  Seigneur  he  has  gone  to  meet 
The  little  good  Folk  of  the  Scarlet  Hills  !  " 

At  first,  all  were  so  impressed  by  the  strange  power 
of  Parpon's  voice,  that  they  were  hardly  conscious  of 
the  story  he  was  telling.  But  when  he  sang  of  the 
Seigneur  they  began  to  read  his  parable.  Their  hearts 
throbbed  painfully. 

As  the  last  notes  died  away  Armand  got  up,  and, 
standing  by  the  table,  said :  "  Parpon,  you  saved  my 
father's  life  once  ?  " 

Parpon  did  not  answer. 

"Will  you  not  tell  him,  my  son?"  said  the  Cure, 
rising.     Still  Parpon  was  silent. 

"  The  son  of  your  grand  Seigneur  asks  you  a  ques- 
tion, Parpon,"  said  Medallion  soothingly. 

*'  Oh,  my  grand  Seigneur !  "  said  Parpon,  throwing 
up  his  hands.  "  Once  he  said  to  me,  '  Come,  my 
brown  diver,  and  live  with  me.'  But  I  said,  *  No,  I 
am  not  fit.  I  will  never  go  to  you  at  the  House  with 
the  Tall  Porch.'  And  I  made  him  promise  that  he 
would  never  tell  of  it.  And  so  I  have  lived  sometimes 
with  old  Farette."  Then  he  laughed  strangely  again, 
and  sent  a  furtive  look  at  Armand. 

"  Parpon,"  said  Armand  gently,  "  our  grand  Sei- 
gneur has  left  you  the  Bois  Noir  for  your  own.  So 
the  hills  and  the  Rock  of  Red  Pigeons  are  for  you — 
and  the  little  good  people,  if  you  like." 

Parpon,  with  fiery  eyes,  gathered  himself  up  with  a 
quick  movement,  then  broke  out,  "  Oh,  my  grand 


224   THE  LANE  THAT  HAD  NO  TURNING 


Scigncnr !  my  grand  Seigneur !  "  and  fell  forward,  his 
head  in  his  arms,  laughing  and  sobbing  together.   ' 

Armand  touched  his  shoulder.  "Parpon!"  Cut 
Parpon  shrank  away. 

Armand  turned  to  the  rest.  **  I  do  not  understand 
it,  gentlemen.  Parpon  does  not  like  the  young  Sei- 
gneur as  he  liked  the  old." 

Medallion,  sitting  in  the  shadow,  smiled.  He  under- 
stood. Armand  continued :  "  As  for  this  testament, 
gentlemen,  I  will  fulfil  its  conditions ;  though  I  swear, 
were  1  otherwise  minded  regarding  the  woman  " — hc/e 
Parpon  raised  his  head  swiftly — "  I  would  not  hang 
my  hat  for  an  hour  in  the  Tall  Porch." 

They  rose  and  shook  hands,  then  the  wine  was 
poured  out,  and  they  drank  it  ofif  in  silence.  Parpon, 
however,  sat  with  his  head  in  his  hands. 

"  Come,  little  comrade,  drink,"  said  Medallion,  offer- 
ing him  a  glass. 

Parpon  made  no  reply,  but  caught  up  the  will,  kissed 
it,  put  it  into  Armand's  hand,  and  then,  jumping 
down  from  the  table,  ran  to  the  door  and  disappeared 
through  it. 


IV 


The  next  afternoon  the  Avocat  visited  old  Farette. 
Farette  was  polishing  a  gun,  mumbling  the  while. 
Sitting  on  some  bags  of  meal  was  Parpon,  with  a  fierce 
twinkle  in  his  eye.  Monsieur  Garon  told  Farette 
briefly  what  the  Seigneur  had  left  him.  With  a  quick, 
greedy  chuckle  Farette  threw  the  gun  away. 

"  Man  alive !  "  said  he ;  "  tell  me  all  about  it.  Ah, 
the  good  news !  " 

"  There  is  nothing  to  tell :  he  left  it ;  that  is  all. 


>» 


UNG 


PARPON   THE    DWARF 


*#  ««  ^ 


rard,  his 
iicr.   ' 
I "     But 

derstand 
ung  Sci- 

[e  under- 
estament, 
I  I  swear, 
n  "— he;e 
not  hang 

whie  was 
Parpon, 

lion,  offer- 

vill,  kissed 
jumping 
appeared 


Id  Farette. 
the  while, 
ith  a  fierce 
Id  Farette 
th  a  quick. 

Lit  it.     Ah, 


is  all 


IS 


>» 


"Oh,  the  good  Seigneur!"  cried  Farette,  "the 
grand  Seigneur !  " 

Some  one  laughed  scornfully  in  the  doorway.  It 
was  Julie. 

"  Look  there!  "  she  cried:  ''  he  gets  the  land,  and 
throws  away  the  gun  !  Brag  and  coward,  miller !  It 
is  for  nie  to  say  *  the  grand  Seigneur ! '  " 

She  tossed  her  head :  she  thought  the  old  Seigneur 
had  relented  towards  her.  She  turned  away  to  the 
house  with  a  flaunting  air,  and  got  her  hat.  At  first 
she  thought  she  would  go  to  the  Flouse  with  the  Tall 
Porch,  but  she  changed  her  mind,  and  went  to  the 
Bois  Noir  instead.  Parpon  followed  her  a  distance 
off.  Behind,  in  the  mill,  Farette  was  chuckling  and 
rubbing  his  hands. 

Meanwhile,  Armand  was  making  his  way  towards 
the  Bois  Noir.  All  at  once,  in  the  shade  of  a  great 
pine,  he  stopped.     He  looked  about  him  astonished. 

*'  This  is  the  old  place !  What  a  fool  I  was,  then !  " 
he  said. 

At  that  moment  Julie  came  quickly,  and  lifted  her 
hands  towards  him.  "  Armand — beloved  Armand  !  " 
she  said. 

Armand  looked  at  her  sternly,  from  her  feet  to  her  pit- 
ted forehead,  then  wheeled,  and  left  her  without  a  word. 

She  sank  in  a  heap  on  the  ground.  There  was  a 
sudden  burst  of  tears,  and  then  she  clenched  her  hands 
"vvith  fury. 

Some  one  laughed  in  the  trees  above  her — a  shrill, 
wild  laugh.  She  looked  up  frightened.  Parpon 
presently  dropped  down  beside  her. 

"  It  was  as  I  said,"  whispered  the  dwarf,  and  he 
touched  her  shoulder.     This  was  the  full  cup  of  shame. 
She  was  silent. 
15 


236   THE  LANE  THAT  HAD  NO  TURNING 


"  There  arc  others,"  he  whispered  again.  She  could 
not  sec  his  strange  smile ;  but  she  noticed  that  his  voice 
was  not  as  usual.  '*  Listen,"  he  urged,  and  he  sang 
softly  over  her  shoulder  for  quite  a  minute.  She  was 
amazed. 

"  Sing  again,"  she  said. 

"  1  have  wanted  to  sing  to  you  like  that  for  many 
years,"  he  replied ;  and  he  sang  a  little  more.  "  He 
cannot  sing  like  that,"  he  wheedled,  and  he  stretched 
his  arm  around  her  shoulder. 

vShe  hung  her  head,  then  i^ung  it  back  again  as  she 
thought  of  Armand. 

"  I  hate  him !  "  she  cried ;  "  I  hate  him !  " 

"  You  will  not  throw  meal  on  me  any  more,  or  call 
me  idiot  ?  "  he  pleaded. 

"  No,  Parpon,"  she  said. 

He  kissed  her  on  the  cheek.  She  did  not  resent  it. 
But  now  he  drew  away,  smiled  wickedly  at  her,  and 
said  :  "  See,  we  are  even  now,  poor  Julie  !  "  Then 
he  laughed,  holding  his  little  sides  with  huge  hands. 
"  Imbecile !  "  he  added,  and,  turning,  trotted  away 
towards  the  Rock  of  Red  Pigeons. 

She  threw  herself,  face  forward,  in  the  dusty  needles 
of  the  pines. 

When  she  rose  from  her  humiliation,  her  face  was  as 
one  who  has  seen  the  rags  of  harlequinade  stripped 
from  that  mummer  Life,  leaving  only  naked  being. 
She  had  touched  the  limits  of  the  endurable ;  her  sor- 
did little  hopes  had  split  into  fragments.  But  when  a 
human  soul  faces  upon  its  past,  and  sees  a  gargoyle  at 
every  milestone  where  an  angel  should  be,  and  in  one 
flash  of  illumination — the  touch  of  genius  to  the  small- 
est mind — understands  the  pitiless  comedy,  there 
comes  the  still  stoic  outlook. 


UNO 


PARPON   THE   DWARF 


227 


ic  couUl 
lis  voice 
he  saug 
She  was 


[or  many 

re.    *'//<? 
stretched 


iin  as 


>re,  or 


she 


call 


it  resent  it. 
It  her,  and 
1 "  Then 
Ligc  hands. 
)ttcd  away 

sty  needles 


Julie  was  transformed.  All  the  possible  years  of  her 
life  were  gathered  into  tlie  force  of  one  dreadful  mo- 
ment— dreadful  and  wonderful.  Her  mean  vanity  was 
lost  behind  the  pale  sincerity  of  her  face — she  was  sin- 
cere at  last!  The  trivial  C(  nnnonness  was  gone  from 
her  coquetting  shoulders  and  drooping  eyelids ;  and 
from  her  body  had  passed  its  flexuous  softness.  She 
was  a  woman ;  suffering,  human,  paying  the  price. 

She  walked  sk)wly  the  way  that  Parpon  had  gone. 
Looking  neither  to  right  nor  left,  she  climbed  (he  long 
hillside,  and  at  last  reached  the  summit,  where,  bundled 
in  a  steep  corner,  was  the  Rock  of  Red  Pigeons.  As 
she  emerged  from  the  pines,  she  stood  for  a  moment, 
and  leaned  with  outstretched  hand  against  a  tree,  look- 
ing into  the  sunlight.  Slowly  her  eyes  shifted  from 
the  Rock  to  the  great  ravine,  to  whose  farther  side 
the  sini  was  giving  bastions  of  gold.  She  was  quiet. 
Presently  she  stepped  into  the  light  and  came  softly 
to  the  Rock.  She  walked  slowly  round  it  as  though 
looking  for  some  one.  At  the  lowest  side  of  the  Rock, 
rude  narrow  hollows  were  cut  for  the  feet.  With  a 
singular  ease  she  climbed  to  the  top  of  it.  It  had  a 
kind  of  hollow,  in  which  was  a  rude  seat,  carved  out  of 
the  stone.  Seeing  this,  a  set  look  came  to  her  face : 
she  was  thinking  of  Parpon,  the  master  of  this  place. 
Her  business  was  with  him. 

She  got  down  slowly,  and  came  over  to  the  edge 
of  the  precipice.  Steadying  herself  against  a  sapling, 
she  looked  over.  Down  below  was  a  whirlpool,  rising 
and  falling — a  hungry  funnel  of  death.  She  drew 
back.  Presently  she  peered  again,  and  once  more 
v.ithdrew.  She  gazed  round,  and  then  made  another 
tour  of  the  hill,  searching.  She  returned  to  the  preci- 
pice.    As  she  did  so  she  heard  a  voice.     She  looked 


228    THE  LANE  THAT  HAD  NO  TURNING 


and  saw  Parpon  seated  upon  a  ledge  of  rock  not  far 
below.  A  mockinp;'  laugh  floated  up  to  her.  But 
there  was  trouble  in  the  laugh  too — a  bitter  sickness. 
She  did  not  notice  that.  She  looked  about  her.  Not 
far  away  was  a  stone,  too  heavy  to  carry  but  perhaps 
not  too  heavy  to  roll ! 

Foot  by  foot  she  rolled  it  over.  She  looked.  He 
was  still  there.  She  stepped  back.  As  she  did  so  a 
few  pebbles  crumbled  away  from  her  feet  and  fell 
where  Parpon  perched.  She  did  not  sec  or  hear  them 
fall.  He  looked  up,  and  saw  the  stone  creeping  upon 
the  edge.  Like  a  flash  he  was  on  his  feet,  and,  spri.ig- 
ing  into  the  air  to  the  right,  caught  a  tree  steadfast  in 
the  rock.  The  stone  fell  upon  the  ledge  and  bounded 
ofif  again.  The  look  of  the  woman  did  not  follow  the 
stone.  She  ran  to  the  spot  above  the  whirlpool,  and 
sprang  out  and  down. 

From  Parpon  there  came  a  wail  such  as  the  hills  of 
the  north  never  heard  before.  Dropping  upon  a  ledge 
beneath,  and  from  that  to  a  jutting  tree,  which  gave 
way,  he  shot  down  into  the  whirlpool.  He  cauglit 
Julie's  body  as  it  was  churned  from  life  to  death :  and 
then  he  fought.  There  was  a  demon  in  the  whirlpool, 
but  God  and  demon  were  working  in  the  man.  Noth- 
ing on  earth  could  have  unloosed  that  long,  brown 
arm  from  Julie's  drenched  body.  The  sun  lifted  an 
eyelid  over  the  yellow  bastions  of  rock,  and  saw  the 
fight.  Once,  twice,  the  shaggy  head  was  caught  be- 
neath the  surface — but  at  last  the  man  conquered  ! 

Inch  by  inch,  foot  by  foot,  Parpon,  with  the  lifeless 
Julie  clamped  in  one  arm,  climbed  the  rough  wall,  on, 
on,  up  to  the  Rock  of  Red  Pigeons.  He  bore  her  to 
the  top  of  it.  Then  he  laid  her  down,  and  pillowed 
her  head  on  his  wet  coat. 


ING 


PARPON   THE   DWARF 


229 


not  far 
,r.  But 
iickness. 
;r.     Not 

perhaps 

cecl.     He 

did  so  a 

and  fell 
icar  thcni 
)ing  upon 
d,  spruis- 
:cad{ast  in 
.1  bounded 
follow  the 
•Ipool,  and 

the  hills  of 
)on  a  ledge 
vhich  gave 
:^e  can  gilt 
death :  and 
whirlpool, 
an.     Noth- 
)ng,  brown 
nlifted  an 
nd  saw  the 
caught  be- 

luered ! 
theUfeless 

r\\  v/all,  on, 

Ibore  her  to 

id  pillowed 


The  liugc  hands  came  slowly  down  Julie's  soaked 
hair,  along  her  blanched  cheek  and  shoulders,  caught 
her  arms  and  held  them.  He  peered  into  her  face. 
The  eyes  had  the  film  which  veils  Here  from  Hereafter. 
On  the  lips  was  a  mocking  smile.  He  stooped  as  if 
to  kiss  her.  The  smile  stopped  him.  He  drew  back 
for  a  time,  then  he  leaned  forward,  shut  his  eyes,  and 
her  cold  lips  were  his. 

Twilight — dusk — night  came  upon  Parpon  and  his 
dead — the  woman  whom  an  impish  fate  had  put  into 
his  heart  with  mockery  and  futile  pain. 


TIMES  WERE   HARD   IN 
PONTIAC 


} 


TIMES  WERE  HARD  IN  PONTIAC 


IT  was  soon  after  the  Rebellion,  and  there  was  little 
food  to  be  had  and  less  money,  and  winter  was  at 
hand.  Pontiac,  ever  most  loyal  to  old  France,  though 
obedient  to  the  English,  had  herself  sent  few  recruits 
to  be  shot  down  by  Colborne,  but  she  had  emptied 
her  pockets  in  sending  to  the  front  the  fulness  of  her 
barns  and  the  best  cattle  of  her  fields.  She  gave  her 
all;  she  was  frank  in  giving,  hid  nothing;  and  when 
her  own  trouble  came  there  was  no  voice  calling  on  her 
behalf.  And  Pontiac  would  rather  starve  than  beg. 
So,  as  the  winter  went  on,  she  starved  in  silence,  and  no 
one  had  more  than  sour  milk  and  bread  and  a  potato 
now  and  then.  The  Cure,  the  Avocat,  and  the  Little 
Chemist  fared  no  better  than  the  habitants,  for  they 
gave  all  they  had  right  and  left,  and  themselves  often 
went  hungry  to  bed.  And  the  truth  is  that  few  out- 
side Pontiac  knew  of  her  suffering ;  she  kept  the  secret 
of  it  close. 

It  seemed  at  last,  however,  to  the  Cure  that  he  must, 
after  all,  write  to  the  world  outside  for  help.  That  was 
when  he  saw  the  faces  of  the  children  get  pale  and 
drawn.  There  never  was  a  time  when  there  were  so 
few  fish  in  the  river  and  so  little  game  in  the  woods. 
At  last,  from  the  altar  steps  one  Sunday,  the  Cure,  with 
a  calm,  sad  voice,  told  the  people  that,  for  '*  the  dear 
children's  sake,"  they  must  sink  their  pride  and  ask 
help  from  without.     He  v;ould  write  first  to  the  Bishop 


234   THE  LANE  THAT  HAD  NO  TURNING 


of  Quebec ;  "  for,"  said  he,  ''  Mother  Church  will 
help  us ;  she  will  give  us  food,  and  money  to  buy  seed 
in  the  spring;  and,  please  God,  we  will  pay  all  back 
in  a  year  or  two !  "  He  paused  a  minute,  then  contin- 
ued :  "  Some  one  must  go,  to  speak  plainly  and  wisely 
of  our  trouble,  that  there  be  no  mistake — we  are  not 
beggars,  we  are  only  borrowers.  Who  will  go?  I 
may  not  myself,  for  who  would  give  the  Blessed  Sac- 
rament, and  speak  to  the  sick,  or  say  Mass  and  com- 
fort you  ?  " 

There  was  silence  in  the  church  for  a  moment,  and 
many  faces  meanwhile  turned  instinctively  to  M.  Garon 
the  Avocat,  and  some  to  the  Little  Chemist. 

"  Who  will  go?  "  asked  the  Cure  again.  "  It  is  a 
bitter  journey,  but  our  pride  must  not  be  our  shame  in 
the  end.     Who  will  go?  " 

Every  one  expected  that  the  Avocat  or  the  Little 
Chemist  would  rise;  but  while  they  looked  at  each' 
other,  waiting  and  sorrowful,  and  the  Avocat's  fingers 
fluttered  to  the  seat  in  front  of  him,  to  draw  himself  up, 
a  voice  came  from  the  corner  opposite,  saying : 

"  M'sieu'  le  Cure,  I  will  go." 

A  strange,  painful  silence  fell  on  the  people  for  a 
moment,  and  then  went  round  an  almost  incredulous 
whisper ;  "  Parpon,  the  dwarf !  " 

Parpon's  deep  eyes  were  fixed  on  the  Cure,  his 
hunched  body  leaning  on  the  railing  in  front  of  him, 
his  long,  strong  arms  stretched  out  as  if  he  were  beg- 
ging for  some  good  thing.  The  murmur  among  the 
people  increased,  but  the  Cure  raised  his  hand  to  com- 
mand silence,  and  his  eyes  gazed  steadily  at  the  dwarf. 
It  might  seem  that  he  was  noting  the  huge  head,  the 
shaggy  hair,  the  overhanging  brows,  the  weird  face  of 
this  distortion  of  a  thing  made  in  God's  own  image. 


TIMES   WERE   HARD    IN    PONTIAC      235 


But  he  was  thinking  instead  of  how  the  angel  and  the 
devil  may  live  side  by  side  in  a  man  and  neither  be 
entirely  driven  out — and  the  angel  conquer  in  great 
times  and  seasons. 

He  beckoned  to  Parpon  to  come  over,  and  the  dwarf 
trotted  with  a  sidelong  motion  to  the  chancel  steps. 
Every  face  in  the  congregation  was  eager,  and  some 
were  mystified,  even  anxious.  They  all  knew  the 
singular  power  of  the  little  man — his  knowledge,  his 
deep  wit,  his  judgment,  his  occasional  ^erceness,  his 
infrequent  malice;  but  he  was  kind  to  children  and  the 
sick,  and  the  Cure  and  the  Avocat  and  their  little  cote- 
rie respected  him.  Once  everybody  had  worshipped 
him :  that  was  when  he  had  sung  in  the  Mass,  the  day 
of  the  funeral  of  the  wife  of  Farette  the  miller,  for 
whom  he  worked.  It  had  been  rumoured  that  in  hi;? 
hut  by  the  Rock  of  Red  Pigeons,  up  at  Dalgrothe 
Mountain,  a  voice  of  most  wonderful  power  and  sweet- 
ness had  been  heard  singing ;  but  this  was  only  rumour. 
Yet  when  the  body  of  the  miller's  wife  lay  in  the  church, 
he  had  sung  so  that  men  and  women  wept  and  held 
each  other's  hands  for  joy.  He  had  never  sung  since, 
however;  his  voice  of  silver  was  locked  away  in  the 
cabinet  of  secret  purposes  which  every  man  has  some- 
where in  his  own  soul. 

"  What  will  you  say  to  the  Bishop,  Parpon  ?  "  asked 
the  Cure. 

The  congregation  stirred  in  their  seats,  for  they  saw 
that  the  Cure  intended  Parpon  to  go. 

Parpon  went  up  two  steps  of  the  chancel  quietly  and 
caught  the  arm  of  the  Cure,  drawing  him  down  to 
whisper  in  his  ear. 

A  flush  and  then  a  peculiar  soft  light  passed  over  the 
Cure's  face,  and  he  raised  his  hand  over  Parpen's  head 


236   THE  LANE  THAT  HAD  NO  TURNING 

in  benediction  and  said :  "  Go,  my  son,  and  the  blessing 
of  God  and  of  His  dear  Son  be  with  you." 

Then  suddenly  he  turned  to  the  altar,  and,  raising 
his  hands,  he  tried  to  speak,  but  only  said:  "  O  Lord, 
Thou  knowest  our  pride  and  our  vanity,  hear  us, 
and " 

Soon  afterward,  with  tearful  eyes,  he  preached  from 
the  text: 

^^  And  the  Light  shineth  in  darkness,  and  the  dark- 
ness comprehendeth  it  not.'' 

Five  days  later  a  little,  uncouth  man  took  off  his  hat 
in  the  chief  street  of  Quebec,  and  began  co  sing  a  song 
of  Picardy  to  an  air  which  no  man  in  French  Canada 
had  ever  heard.  Little  farmers  on  their  way  to  the 
market  by  the  Place  de  Cathedral  stopped,  listening, 
though  every  moment's  delay  lessened  their  chances 
of  getting  a  stand  in  the  market-place.  Butchers  and 
milkmen  loitered,  regardless  of  waiting  customers ;  a 
little  company  of  soldiers  caught  up  the  chorus,  and 
to  avoid  involuntary  revolt,  their  sergeant  halted  them, 
that  they  might  listen.  Gentlemen  strolling  by — 
doctor,  lawyer,  ofificer,  idler — paused  and  forgot  the 
raw  climate,  for  this  marvellous  voice  in  the  unshapely 
body  warmed  them,  and  they  pushed  in  among  the 
fast-gathering  crowd.  Ladies  hurrying  by  in  their 
sleighs  lost  their  hearts  to  the  thrilling  notes  of : 


"  Little  grey  fisherman, 
Where  is  your  daughter? 
Where  is  your  daughter  so  sweet  ? 
Little  gray  man  who  comes 
Over  the  water, 
I  have  knelt  down  at  her  feet, 
Knelt  at  your  Gabrielle's  feet — ci  ci  !  " 


NING 
:  blessing 

1,  raising 
O  Lord, 
hear   us, 

:hed  from 

the  dark- 


off  his  hat 
ing  a  song 
ch  Canada 
vay  to  the 
,  listening, 
;ir  chances 
itchers  and 
stomers;  a 
horns,  and 
|alted  them, 
|Uing   by- 
forgot  the 
unshapely 
[among  the 
,y   in  their 
Is  of : 


TIMES   WERE   HARD    IN    PONTIAC     237 

Presently  the  wife  of  the  governor  stepped  out  from 
her  sleigh,  and,  coming  over,  quickly  took  Parpon's 
cap  from  his  hand  and  went  round  among  the  crowd 
with  it,  gathering  money. 

"  He  is  hungry,  he  is  poor,"  she  said  with  tears  in 
her  eyes.  She  had  known  the  song  in  her  childhood, 
and  he  who  used  to  sing  it  to  her  was  in  her  sight  no 
more.  In  vain  the  gentlemen  would  have  taken  the 
cap  from  her;  she  gathered  the  money  herself,  and 
others  followed,  and  Parpon  sang  on. 

A  night  later  a  crowd  gathered  in  the  great  hall  of 
the  city,  filling  it  to  the  doors,  to  hear  the  dwarf  sing. 
He  came  on  the  platform  dressed  as  he  had  entered  the 
city,  with  heavy,  home-made  coat  and  trousers,  and 
moccasins,  and  a  red  woollen  comforter  about  his  neck 
— but  this  comforter  he  took  off  when  he  began  to  sing. 
Old  France  and  New  France,  and  the  loves  and  hates 
and  joys  and  sorrows  of  all  lands,  met  that  night  in  the 
soul  of  this  dwarf  with  the  divine  voice,  who  did  not 
give  them  his  name,  so  that  they  called  him,  for  want 
of  a  better  title,  the  Provencal.  And  again  two  nights 
afterwards  it  was  the  same,  and  yet  again  a  third  night 
and  a  fourth,  and  the  simple  folk,  and  wise  folk  also, 
went  mad  after  Parpon  the  dwarf. 

Then,  suddenly,  he  disappeared  from  Quebec  City, 
and  the  next  Sunday  morning,  while  the  Cure  was 
saying  the  last  words  of  the  Mass,  he  entered  the 
Church  of  St.  Saviour  at  Pontiac.  Going  up  to  the 
chancel  steps  he  waited.  The  murmuring  of  the  peo- 
ple drew  the  Cure's  attention,  and  then,  seeing  Parpon, 
he  came  forward. 

Parpon  drew  from  his  breast  a  bag,  and  put  it  in  his 
hands,  and  beckoning  down  the  Cure's  head,  he  whis- 
pered. 


238   THE  LANK  THAT  HAD  NO  TURNING 

The  Cure  turned  to  the  altar  and  raised  the  bag  to- 
wards it  in  ascription  and  thanksgiving,  then  he  turned 
to  Parpon  again,  but  the  dwarf  was  trotting  away  down 
the  aisle  and  from  the  church. 

"  Dear  children,"  said  the  Cure,  "  we  are  saved,  and 
we  are  not  shamed."  He  held  up  the  bag.  "  Parpon 
has  brought  us  two  thousand  dollars:  we  shall  have 
food  to  eat,  and  there  shall  be  more  money  against 
seed-time.  The  fc,iver  of  this  good  gift  demands  that 
his  name  be  not  known.  Such  is  all  true  charity.  Let 
Its  pray." 

So  hard  times  passed  from  Pontiac  as  the  months 
went  on,  but  none  save  the  Cure  and  the  Avocat  knew 
who  had  helped  her  in  her  hour  of  need. 


RNING 

he  bag  to- 
he  turned 
way  down 

saved,  and 
"  Parpon 
shall  have 
ey  against 
nands  that 
irity.     Let 

16  months 
ocat  knew 


MEDALLION'S  WHIM 


^ 


■"  •■■' '"-'  - 


I 

i: 
V 

t 


,...      -■■.      -  j.^^  inmtiTTf-  _ 


MEDALLION'S  WHIM 


WHEN  the  Avocat  began  to  lose  his  lieaUh  and 
spirits,  and  there  crept  through  his  shrewd 
gravity  and  kindhness  a  petulance  and  dejection,  Me- 
dallion was  the  only  person  who  had  an  inspiriting  ef- 
fect upon  him.  The  Little  Chemist  had  decided  that 
the  change  in  him  was  due  to  bad  circulation  and  fail- 
ing powers :  which  was  only  partially  true. 

Medallion  made  a  deeper  guess.  "  Want  to  know 
what's  the  matter  with  him?  "  he  said.  "  Ha!  I'll  tell 
you:  Woman." 

"  Woman !  God  bless  mc !  "  said  the  Little  Chemist, 
in  a  frightened  way. 

**  Woman,  little  man ;  I  mean  the  want  of  a  woman," 
said  Medallion. 

The  Cure,  who  was  present,  shrugged  his  shoul- 
ders. "  He  has  an  excellent  cook,  and  his  bed  and 
jackets  are  well  aired;  I  see  them  constantly  at  the 
windows." 

A  laugh  gurgled  in  Medallion's  throat.  He  loved 
these  innocent  folk ;  but  himself  went  twice  a  year  to 
Quebec  City  and  had  more  expanded  views. 

"  Woman,  Padre  " — nodding  to  the  priest,  and  rub- 
bing his  chin  so  that  it  rasped  like  sand-paper — "  wo- 
man !  my  druggist  " — throwing  a  sly  look  at  the  Chem- 
ist— "  woman,  neither  as  cook  nor  bottle-washer,  is 
what  he  needs.  Every  man — out  of  holy  orders  " — ■ 
this  in  deference  to  his  good  friend  the  Cure — "  arrives 
i6 


242    THE  LANE  THAT  HAD  NO  TURNING 

at  tlic  time  vvhon  his  youth  must  be  renewed  or  lie  be- 
comes as  th'v  bones — like  an  empty  house — furniture 
sold  oft.  Can  only  be  renewed  one  way — Woman. 
Well,  here's  our  Avocat,  and  there's  his  remedy.  He's 
got  the  cooking-  antl  the  clean  fresh  linen,  he  must  have 
a  wife,  the  very  best." 

"  Ah,  my  friend,  you  are  droll,"  said  the  Cure,  arch- 
ing his  long  lingers  at  his  lips  and  blowing  gently 
through  them,  but  not  smiling  in  the  least;  rather 
seri(^us,  almost  reproving. 

"  It  is  such  a  whim,  such  a  whim !  "  said  the  Little 
Chemist,  shaking  his  hea-'  and  looking  throu[;h  his 
glasses  sideways  like  a  wise  bird. 

"  Ha !  You  shall  see.  The  man  must  be  saved ; 
our  Cure  shall  have  his  fees ;  our  druggist  shall  pro- 
vide the  finest  essences  for  the  feast — no  more  pills. 
And  we  shall  dine  with  our  Avocat  once  a  week — with 
asparagus  in  season  for  the  Cure,  and  a  little  good  wine 
for  all.'    Ha!" 

His  Ha!  was  never  a  laugh  ;  it  was  imctuous,  abrupt, 
an  ejaculation  of  satisfaction,  knowledge,  solid  enjoy- 
ment, final  solution. 

The  Cure  shook  his  head  doubtfully ;  he  did  not  see 
the  need ;  he  did  not  believe  in  Medallion's  whim ;  still 
he  knew  that  the  man's  judgment  was  shrewd  in  most 
things,  and  he  would  be  silent  and  wait.  But  he  shrank 
from  any  new  phase  of  life  likely  to  alter  the  conditions 
of  that  old  companionship,  which  included  themselves, 
the  Avocat,  and  the  young  Doctor,  who,  like  the  Little 
Chemist,  was  married. 

The  Chemist  sharply  said :  "  Well,  well,  perhaps.  I 
hope.  There  is  a  poetry  "  (his  English  was  not  perfect, 
and  at  times  he  mixed  it  with  French  in  an  amusing 
manner),  "  a  little  chanson,  which  runs : 


NING 


MEDALLION'S    WHIM 


243 


ur  he  be- 
■fuinilurc 
-Woman, 
ly.  He's 
mist  have 

lire,  arch- 
i^r  ^rcntly 
St;  rather 

the  Little 
rou^^h  his 

be  saved; 
shall  pro- 
iiore  pills, 
^eek — with 
I  good  wine 

us,  abrupt, 
Dlid  enjoy- 

lid  not  see 
whim ;  still 
vd  in  most 
he  shrank 
conditions 
hemselves, 
the  Little 

perhaps.     I 

lot  perfect, 

In  amusing 


•*  '  Sorrowful  is  tlu*  liltlo  house, 

The  hltlc  house  \>y  the  winding  stream  ; 
All  the  luughter  has  died  uway 

Out  of  the  little  house. 
I'lUt  down  there  come  fronj  the  lofty  hills 
Footsteps  and  eyes  aj^leam, 
liriny;inji  the  lauvjhter  of  yesterday 

Into  the  little  house, 
IJy  the  windiuij  stream  and  the  hills. 
Ui  ran,  di  rott,  Ji  ron,  Ui  ron-don  !'  " 

The  Little  Chemist  blushed  faintly  at  the  silence  that 
followed  his  timid,  quaint  recital.  The  Cure  looked 
calm  and  kind,  and  drawn  away  as  if  in  thought ;  but 
Medallion  presently  got  up,  stooped,  and  laid  his  long 
lingers  on  the  shoulder  of  the  apothecary. 

"  I'lxactly,  little  man,"  he  said ;  "  we've  both  got  the 
same  idea  in  our  heads ;  I've  put  it  hard  fact,  you've  put 
it  soft  sentiment,  and  it's  God's  truth  cither  way." 

Presently  the  Cure  asked,  as  if  from  a  greut  distance, 
so  meditative  was  his  voice,  "  Who  will  be  the  woman. 
Medallion?" 

"  I've  got  one  in  my  eye — the  very  righi  one  for  our 
Avocat;  not  here,  not  out  of  Pontiac,  but  from  St. 
Jean  in  the  hills — fulfilling  your  verses,  gentle  apothe- 
cary. She  must  bring  what  is  fresh — he  must  feel  that 
the  hills  have  come  to  him,  she  that  the  valley  is  hers 
for  the  first  time.     A  new  world  for  them  both.     Ha !  " 

"  Regardezqa!  you  are  a  great  man,"  said  the  Little 
Chemist. 

There  was  a  strange,  inscrutable  look  in  the  kind 
priest's  eyes.  The  Avocat  had  confessed  to  him  in  his 
time. 

Medallion  took  up  his  hat. 

"  Where  are  you  going?  "  said  the  Little  Chemist. 


244    THE  LANE  THAT  HAD  NO  TURNING 

"  To  our  Avocat,  and  then  to  St.  Jean."  ' 
He  opened  the  door  and  vanished.    The  two  that 
were  left  shook  their  heads  and  wondered. 


Chuckling  softly  to  himself,  Medallion  strode  away 
through  the  lane  of  white-board  houses  and  the  smoke 
of  strong  tabac  from  these  houses,  now  and  then  pulling 
suddenly  up  to  avoid  stumbling  over  a  child,  where 
children  are  numbered  by  the  dozen  to  every  house. 
He  came  at  last  to  a  house  unlike  the  others,  in  that  it 
was  of  stone  and  larger.  He  leaned  for  a  moment 
over  the  gate,  and  looked  through  a  window  into  a 
room  where  the  Avocat  sat  propped  up  with  cushions 
in  a  great  chair,  staring  gloomily  at  two  candles  burn- 
ing on  the  table  before  him.  Medallion  watched  him 
for  a  long  time.  The  Avocat  never  changed  his  posi- 
tion ;  he  only  stared  at  the  can  He,  and  once  or  twice  his 
lips  moved.  A  woman  came  in  and  put  a  steaming 
bowl  before  him,  and  laid  a  pipe  and  matches  beside  the 
bowl.  She  was  a  very  little,  thin  old  woman,  quick  and 
quiet  and  watchful — his  housekeeper.  The  Avocat 
took  no  notice  of  her.  She  looked  at  him  several  times 
anxiously,  and  passed  backwards  and  forwards  behind 
him  as  a  hen  moves  upon  the  flank  of  her  brood.  All 
at  once  she  stopped.  Her  small,  white  lingers  with 
their  large  rheumatic  knuckles  lay  flat  on  her  lips  as 
she  stood  for  an  instant  musing;  then  she  trotted 
lightly  to  a  bureau,  got  pen  and  paper  and  ink,  reached 
down  a  bunch  of  keys  from-  the  mantel,  and  came  and 
put  them  all  beside  the  bowl  and  the  pipe.  Still  the 
Avocat  did  not  stir,  or  show  that  he  recognized  her. 
She  went  to  the  door,  turned,  and  looked  back,  her 
fingers  again  at  her  lips,  then  slowly  sidled  out  of  the 
room.     It  was  long  before  the  Avocat  moved.    His 


mmm^ttmiti 


^NG 


% 


MEDALLION'S   WHIM 


245 


two  that 


3de  away 
tie  smoke 
;n  pulling 
Id,  where 
ry  house. 
,  in  that  it 
I  moment 
ow  into  a 
1  cushions 
idles  burn- 
Itched  him 
d  his  posi- 
Dr  twice  his 
a  steaming 
I  beside  the 
,  quick  and 
lie  Avocat 
iveral  times 
irds  behind 
.rood.     All 
ngers  with 
her  lips  as 
she  trotted 
Ink,  reached 
Id  came  and 
Still  the 
ignized  her. 
Id  back,  her 
Id  out  of  the 
[oved.    His 


eyes  had  not  wavered  from  the  space  between  the 
candles.  At  last,  however,  he  glanced  down.  His 
eye  caught  the  bowl,  then  the  pipe.  He  reached  out  a 
slow  hand  for  the  pipe,  and  was  taking  it  up,  when  his 
glance  fell  on  the  keys  and  the  writing  material.  He 
put  the  pipe  down,  looked  up  at  the  door  through 
which  the  little  old  woman  had  gone,  gazed  round  the 
room,  took  up  the  keys,  but  soon  put  them  down  again 
with  a  sigh,  and  settled  back  in  his  chair.  Now  his 
gaze  alternated  between  that  long  lane  sloping  into 
shadow  between  the  candles,  and  the  keys. 

Medallion  threw  a  leg  over-'the  fence  and  came  in  a 
few  steps  to  the  door.  He  opened  it  quietly  and  en- 
tered. In  the  dark  he  felt  his  way  along  the  wall  to  the 
door  of  the  Avocat's  room,  opened  it,  and  thrust  iu  his 
ungainly,  whimsical  face. 

"  Ha ! "  he  laughed  with  quick-winking  eyes. 
"  Evening,  Garon.  Live  the  Code  Napoleon !  Pipes 
for  tv/o." 

A  change  came  slowly  over  the  Avocat.  His  eyes 
drew  away  from  that  vista  between  the  candles,  and  the 
strajige  distant  look  faded  out  of  them. 

"  Great  is  the  Code  Napoleon !  "  he  said  mechan- 
ically.    Then,  presently :  "  Ah,  my  friend,  Medallion !  " 

His  first  words  were  the  answer  to  a  formula  which 
always  passed  between  them  on  meeting.  As  soon  as 
Garon  had  said  them,  Medallion's  lanky  body  followed 
his  face,  and  in  a  moment  he  had  the  Avocat's  hand  in 
his,  swallowing  it,  of  purpose  crushing  it,  so  that 
Monsieur  Garon  waked  up  smartly  and  gave  his  visitor 
a  pensive  smile.  Medallion's  cheerful  nervous  vitality 
seldom,  failed  to  inspire  whom  he  chose  to  inspire  with 
something  of  his  own  life  and  cheerfulness.  In  a  few 
moments  both  the  Avocat  and  himself  were  smokinn:, 


^»„ 


> 


\  , 


246   THE  LANE  THAT  HAD  NO  TURNING 


and  the  contents  of  the  steaming  bowl  were  divided  be- 
tween them.  MedalHon  talked  on  many  things.  The 
little  old  housekeeper  came  in,  chirped  a  soft  good- 
evening,  flashed  a  small  thankful  smile  at  Medallion, 
and,  after  renewing  the  bowl  and  lighting  two  more  tall 
candles,  disappeared.  Medallion  began  with  the 
parish,  passed  to  the  law,  from  the  law  to  Napoleon, 
from  Napoleon  to  France,  and  from  France  to  the 
world,  drawing  out  from  the  Avocat  something  of  his 
old  vivacity  and  fire.  At  last  Medallion,  seeing  that 
the  time  was  ripe,  turned  his  glass  round  musingly  in 
his  fingers  before  him,  and  said : 

"  Benoit,  Annette's  husband,  died  to-day,  Garon. 
You  knew  him.  He  went  singing — gone  in  the  head, 
but  singing  as  he  used  to  do  before  he  married — or  got 
drunk!  Perhaps  his  youth  came  back  to  him  when 
he  was  going  to  die,  just  for  a  minute." 

The  Avocat's  eye  gazed  at  Medallion  earnestly  now, 
and  Medallion  went  on : 

"  As  good  singing  as  you  want  to  hear.  You've 
heard  the  words  of  the  song — the  river-drivers  sing  it : 


*'  '  What  is  there  like  to  the  cry  of  the  bird 
That  sings  in  its  nest  in  the  lilac  tree  ? 
A  voice  the  sweetest  you  ever  have  heard  ; 

It  is  there,  it  is  here,  ci,  ci  ! 
It  is  there,  it  is  here,  it  must  roam  and  roam. 

And  wander  from  shore  to  shore, 
Till  I  go  forth  and  bring  it  home, 
And  enter  and  close  my  door — 

Row  along,  row  along  home,  «,  ci  ! ' " 


When  Medallion  had  finished  saying  the  first  verse 
he  waited,  but  the  Avocat  said  nothing ;  his  eyes  were 
now  fastened  again  on  that  avenue  between  the  candles 


ING 

ded  be- 
j.    The 
t  good- 
;dalUon, 
lore  tall 
ith    the 
apoleon, 
t  to  the 
ig  of  his 
;ing  that 
singly  in 

',  Garon. 
the  head, 
i— or  got 
lim  when 

sstly  now, 

You've 
•s  sing  it : 


MEDALLION'S   WHIM 


247 


Ifirst  verse 

[eyes  were 

le  candles 


leading  out  into  the  immortal  part  of  him — his  past ;  he 
was  busy  with  a  life  that  had  once  been  spent  in  the 
fields  of  Fontainebleuu  and  in  the  shadow  of  the  Pan- 
theon. 

Medallion  went  on : 

"  '  What  is  there  like  to  the  laughing  star, 
Far  up  from  the  lilac  tree  ? 
A  face  that's  brighter  and  finer  far ; 

It  laughs  and  it  shines,  ci,  ci  ! 
It  laughs  and  it  shines,  it  must  roam  and  roam 

And  travel  from  shore  to  shore, 

Till  I  go  forth  and  bring  it  home, 

And  house  it  within  my  door — 

Row  along,  row  along  home,  ci,  ci  !  '  " 

When  Medallion  had  finished  he  raised  his  glass  and 
said :  '*  Garon,  I  drink  to  home  and  woman !  " 

He  waited.  The  Avocat's  eyes  drew  away  from  the 
candles  again,  and  he  came  to  his  feet  suddenly,  sway- 
ing slightly  as  he  did  so.     He  caught  up  a  glass  and, 

lifting  it,  said :  "  I  drink  to  home  and "  a  little  cold 

burst  of  laughter  came  from  him,  he  threw  his  head 
back  with  something  like  disdain — "  and  the  Code  Na- 
poleon !  "  he  added  abruptly. 

Then  he  put  the  glass  down  without  drinking, 
wheeled  back,  and  dropped  into  his  chair.  Presently 
lie  got  up,  took  his  keys,  went  over,  opened  the  bureau, 
and  brought  back  a  well-worn  note-book  which  looked 
like  a  diary.  He  seemed  to  have  forgotten  Medallion's 
presence,  but  it  was  not  so ;  he  had  reached  the  moment 
of  disclosure  which  comes  to  every  man,  no  matter  how 
secretive,  when  he  must  tell  what  is  on  his  mind  or  die. 
He  opened  the  book  with  trembling  fingers,  took  a  pen 
and  wrote,  at  first  slowly,  while  Medallion  smoked : 


248   THE  LANE  THAT  HAD  NO  TURNING 


"  September  13th. — It  is  five-and-tvventy  years  ago 
to-day — Mon  Dieii,  how  we  danced  that  night  on  the 
flags  before  the  Sorbonne !  How  gay  we  were  in  the 
Maison  Bleu!  We  were  gay  and  happy — Lulie  and  I 
— two  rooms  and  a  few  francs  ahead  every  week.  That 
night  we  danced  and  poured  out  the  light  wine,  becaus.i 
we  were  to  be  married  to-morrow.  Perhaps  there 
would  be  a  child,  if  the  priest  blessed  us,  she  whispered 
to  me  as  we  watched  the  soft-travelling  moon  in  the 
gardens  of  the  Luxembourg.  Well,  we  danced.  There 
was  an  artist  with  us.  I  saw  him  catch  Lulie  about  the 
waist,  and  kiss  her  on  the  neck.  She  was  angry,  but  I 
did  not  think  of  that ;  I  was  mad  with  wine.  I  quar- 
relled with  her,  and  said  to  her  a  shameful  thing.  Then 
I  rushed  away.  We  were  not  married  the  next  day ;  I 
could  not  find  her.  One  night,  soon  after,  there  was  a 
revolution  of  students  at  Mont  Parnasse.  I  was  hurt. 
I  remember  that  she  came  to  me  then  and  nursed  me, 
but  when  I  got  well  she  was  gone.  Then  came  the 
secret  word  from  the  Government  that  I  must  leave 
the  country  or  go  to  prison.  I  came  here.  Alas !  it  is 
long  since  we  danced  before  the  Sorbonne,  and  supped 
at  the  Maison  Bleu.  I  shall  never  see  again  the  gar- 
dens of  the  Luxembourg.  Well,  that  was  a  mad  night 
five-and-twenty  years  ago !  " 

His  pen  went  faster  and  faster.  His  eyes  lighted  up, 
he  seemed  quite  forgetful  of  Medallion's  presence. 
When  he  finished  a  fresh  change  came  over  him.  He 
gathered  his  thin  fingers  in  a  bunch  at  his  lips,  and 
made  an  airy  salute  to  the  warm  space  between  the 
candles.  He  drew  himself  together  with  a  youthful 
air,  and  held  his  grey  head  gallantly.  Youth  and  aj^e 
in  him  seemed  almost  grotesquely  mingled.  Sprightly 
notes  from  the  song  of  a  cafe  chantant  hovered  on  his 


MEDALLION'S   WHIM 


249 


thin,  dry  lips.  Medallion,  amused,  yet  with  a  hushed 
kind  of  feeling  through  all  his  nerves,  pushed  the  Avo- 
cat's  tumbler  till  it  touched  his  fingers.  The  thin 
fingers  twined  round  it,  and  once  more  he  came  to  his 
feet.  He  raised  the  glass.  "  To — "  for  a  minute  he 
got  no  further — "  To  the  wedding-eve !  "  he  said,  and 
sipped  the  hot  wine.  Presently  he  pushed  the  little 
well-worn  book  over  to  Medallion.  "  I  have  known 
you  fifteen  years — read !  "  he  said.  He  gave  Medal- 
lion a  meaning  look  out  of  his  now  flashing  eyes. 

Meaallion's  bony  face  responded  cordially.  **  Of 
course,"  he  answered,  picked  up  the  book,  and  read 
what  the  Avocat  had  written.  It  was  on  the  last  page. 
When  he  had  finished  reading,  he  held  the  book  mus- 
ingly. His  whim  had  suddenly  taken  on  a  new  colour. 
The  Avocat,  who  had  been  walking  up  and  down  the 
room,  with  the  quick  step  of  a  young  man,  stopped  be- 
fore him,  took  the  book  from  him,  turned  to  the  first 
page,  and  handed  it  back  silentl>.    Medallion  read: 

"  Quebec :  September  13th,  18 — .  It  is  one  year 
since.     I  shall  learn  to  laugh  some  day." 

Medallion  looked  up  at  him.  The  old  man  threw 
back  his  head,  spread  out  the  last  page  in  the  book 
which  he  had  just  written,  and  said  defiantly,  as  though 
expecting  contradiction  to  his  self-deception :  "  I  have 
learned." 

Then  he  laughed,  but  the  laugh  was  dry  and  hollow 
and  painful.  It  suddenly  passed  from  his  wrinkled 
lips,  and  he  sat  down  again ;  but  now  with  an  air  as 
of  shyness  and  shame.  "  Let  us  talk,"  he  said,  "  of — 
of  the  Code  Napoleon." 


The  next  morning  Medallion  visited  St.  Jean  in  the 
hills.     Five  years  before  he  had  sold  to  a  new-comer. 


250   THE  LANE  THAT  HAD  NO  TURNING 

at  St.  Jean — ^Madame  Lecyr — the  furniture  of  a  little 
house,  and  there  had  sprung  up  between  them  a  quiet 
friendship,  not  the  less  admiring  on  Medallion's  part 
because  Madame  Lecyr  was  a  good  friend  to  the  poor 
and  sick.  She  never  tired,  when  they  met,  of  hearing 
him  talk  of  the  Cure,  the  Little  Chemist,  and  the  Avo- 
cat;  and  in  the  Avocat  she  seemed  to  take  the  most 
interest,  making  countless  inquiries — countless  when 
spread  over  mariy  conversations — upon  his  life  during 
the  time  Medallion  had  known  him.  He  knew  also 
that  she  came  to  Pontiac,  occasionally,  but  only  in  the 
evening;  and  once  of  a  moonlight  night  he  had  seen 
her  standing  before  the  window  of  the  Avocat's  house. 
Once  also  he  had  seen  her  veiled  in  the  little  crowded 
court-room  of  Pontiac  when  an  interesting  case  was 
being  tried,  and  noticed  how  she  watched  Monsieur 
Garon,  standing  so  very  still  that  she  seemed  lifeless ; 
and  how  she  stole  out  as  soon  as  he  had  done  speaking. 
Medallion  had  acute  instincts,  and  was  supremely  a 
man  of  self-counsel.  What  he  thought  he  kept  to 
himself  until  there  seemed  necessity  to  speak.  A  few 
days  before  the  momentous,  one  herebefore  described 
he  had  called  at  xVladame  Lecyr's  house,  and,  in  course 
of  conversation,  told  her  that  the  Avocat's  health  was 
breaking;  that  the  day  before  he  had  got  completely 
fogged  in  court  over  the  simplest  business,  and  was 
quite  unlike  his  old,  shrewd,  kindly  self.  By  this  lime 
he  was  almost  prepared  to  see  her  turn  pale  and  her 
lingers  flutter  at  the  knitting-needles  she  held.  She 
made  an  excuse  to  leave  the  room  for  a  moment.  He 
saw  a  little  book  lying  near  the  chair  from  which  she 
had  risen.  Perhaps  it  had  dropped  from  her  pocket. 
He  picked  it  up.  It  was  a  book  of  French  songs — 
Beranger's  and  others  less  notable.     On  the  fly-leaf 


MEDALLION'S   WHIM 


251 


was  written :  "  From  Victor  to  Lulie,  September  13th, 
18—." 

Presently  she  came  back  to  him  quite  recovered  and 
cahii,  inquired  how  the  Avocat  was  cared  for,  and 
hoped  he  would  have  every  comfort  and  care.  Me- 
dallion grew  on  the  instant  bold.  He  was  now  certain 
that  Victor  was  the  Avocat,  and  Lulie  was  Madame 
Lecyr.  He  said  abruptly  to  her :  "  Why  not  come  and 
cheer  him  up — such  old  friends  as  you  are  ?  " 

At  that  she  rose  with  a  little  cry,  and  stared  anx- 
iously at  him.  He  pointed  to  the  book  of  songs. 
"  Don't  be  angry — I  looked,"  he  said. 

She  breathed  quick  and  hard,  and  said  nothing, 
but  her  fingers  laced  and  interlaced  nervously  in  her 
lap. 

"  If  you  were  friends  why  don't  you  go  to  him  ?  " 
he  said. 

She  shook  her  head  mournfully.  "  We  were  more 
than  friends,  and  that  is  different." 

"  You  were  his  wife  ?  "  said  MedalHon  gently. 

"  It  was  different,"  she  replied,  flushing.  "  France 
is  not  the  same  as  here.  We  were  to  be  married, 
but  on  the  eve  of  our  wedding-day  there  was  an  end 
to  it  all.  Only  five  years  ago  I  found  out  he  was 
here." 

Then  she  became  silent,  and  would,  or  could,  speak 
no  m.ore ;  only,  she  said  at  last  before  he  went :  "  You 
will  not  tell  him,  or  any  one  ?  " 

She  need  not  have  asked  Medallion.  He  knew 
many  secrets  and  kept  them — which  is  not  the  usual 
way  of  good-humoured  people. 

But  now,  with  the  story  told  by  the  Avocat  himself 
in  his  mind,  he  saw  the  end  of  the  long  romance.  He 
came  once  more  to  the  house  of  Madame  Lecyr,  and 


252   THE  LANE  THAT  HAD  NO  TURNING 

being  admitted,  said  to  her:  "  You  r  uvst  come  at  once 
with  me." 

She  trembled  towards  him,  "  Irh:  is  worse — he  is 
dying!" 

He  smiled.  "Not  dying  at  alV  He  needs  you; 
come  along.     I'll  tell  yc  u  ls  we  go," 

But  she  hung  back.  Then  he  told  her  all  he  had 
seen  and  heard  the  evening  before.  Without  a  word 
further  she  prepared  to  go.  On  the  way  he  turned 
to  her,  and  said,  "  You  are  Madame  Lecyr?  " 

"  I  am  as  he  left  me,"  she  replied  timidly,  but  with  a 
kind  of  pride,  too. 

**  Don't  mistake  me,"  he  said.  "  I  thought  perhaps 
you  had  been  married  since." 

The  Avocat  sat  in  his  little  office,  feebly  fumbling 
among  his  papers,  as  Medallion  entered  on  him  and 
called  to  him  cheerily :  "  We  are  coming  to  see  you  to- 
night, Garon— the  Cure,  our  Little  Chemist,  and  the 
Seigneur ;  coming  to  supper." 

The  Avocat  put  out  his  hand  courteously;  but  he 
said  in  a  shrinking,  pained  voice,  "  No,  no,  not  to- 
night. Medallion.  I  would  wish  no  visitors  this  night 
—of  all." 

Medallion  stooped  over  him  and  caught  him  by  both 
arms  gently.  "  We  shall  see,"  he  said.  "  It  is  the 
anniversary,"  he  whispered. 

"Ah,  pardon!''  r-"d  the  Avc:'at,  with  a  reproving 
pride,  and  shrank  back  as  if  all  his  nerves  had  been  laid 
bare.  But  Medallion  turned,  opened  the  door,  went 
out,  and  let  in  a  woman,  who  came  forward  and  timidly 
raised  her  veil. 

"  Victor !  •'  Medallion  heard,  then  "  Lulie ! "  and  then 
he  shut  the  door,  and,  with  supper  in  his  mind, 
went  into  the  kitchen  to  see  the  housekeeper,  who,  in 


.,:-^^' 


MEDALLION'S   WHIM  253 

this  new  joy,  had  her  own  tragedy— humm    g  to  him- 
self : 


"  But  down  there  come  from  tht  lofty  hills 
Footsteps  and  eyes  agleam, 
Bringing  the  laughter  of  yesterday 
Into  the  little  house." 


THE  PRISONER 


p 

t( 

e; 


b 

P 
h 

a 


CJ 

fc 
vv 

01 

tl 

C( 

n: 


THE   PRISONER 


HIS  chief  occupation  in  the  daytime  was  to  stand  on 
the  bench  by  the  small  barred  window  and 
watch  the  pigeons  on  tlie  roof  and  in  the  eaves  of  the 
house  opposite.  For  five  years  he  had  done  this.  In 
the  summer  a  great  fire  seemed  to  burn  beneath  the 
tin  of  the  roof,  for  a  quivering  hot  air  rose  from 
them,  and  the  pigeons  never  ahghted  on  them,  save  in 
the  early  morning  or  in  the  evening.  Just  over  the 
peak  could  be  seen  the  topmost  branch  of  a  maple, 
too  slight  to  bear  the  weight  of  the  pigeons,  but  the 
caves  were  dark  and  cool,  and  there  his  eyes  rested 
when  he  tired  of  the  hard  blue  sky  and  the  glare  of  the 
slates. 

In  winter  the  roof  was  covered  for  weeks  and  months 
by  a  blanket  of  snow  which  looked  like  a  shawl  of  im- 
pacted wool,  white  and  restful,  and  the  windows  of  the 
house  were  spread  with  frost.  But  the  pigeons  were 
always  gay,  walking  on  the  ledges  or  crowding  on  the 
shelves  of  the  lead  pipes.  He  studied  them  much,  but 
he  loved  them  more.  His  prison  was  less  a  prison  be- 
cause of  them,  and  during  those  long  five  years  he 
found  himself  more  in  touch  with  them  than  with  the 
wardens  of  the  prison  or  with  any  of  his  fellow-pris- 
oners. To  the  formfr  he  was  respectful,  and  he  gave 
them  no  trouble  at  all ;  with  the  iatlcr  he  had  nothing  in 
common,  for  they  were  criminals,  and  hv? — so  wild  and 
mad  with  drink  and  anger  was  he  at  .n<'.  time,  that  he 
17 


258    THE  LANE  THAT  HAD  NO  TURNING 


had  no  remembrance,  absolutely  none,  of  how  Jean 
Gamachc  lost  his  life. 

He  remembered  that  they  had  played  cards  far  into 
the  night;  that  they  had  quarrelled,  then  made  their 
peace ;  that  the  others  had  left ;  that  they  had  begun 
gaming  and  drinking  and  quarrelling  again — and  then 
evcrytliing  was  blurred,  save  for  a  vague  recollection 
that  he  had  won  all  Gamache's  money  and  had  pock- 
eted it.     Afterwards  came  a  blank. 

He  waked  to  find  two  officers  of  the  law  beside  him, 
and  the  body  of  Jean  Gamache,  stark  and  dreadful,  a 
few  feet  away. 

When  the  officers  put  their  hands  upon  him  he 
shook  them  oflf ;  when  they  did  it  again  he  would  have 
fought  them  to  the  death  had  it  not  been  for  his  friend, 
tall  Medallion,  the  auctioneer,  who  laid  a  strong  hand 
on  his  arm  and  said,  "  Steady,  Turgeon,  steady!  "  and 
he  had  yielded  to  the  firm  friendly  pressure. 

Medallion  had  left  no  stone  unturned  to  clear  him  at 
the  trial,  had  himself  played  detective  unceasingly. 
But  the  hard  facts  remained,  and  on  a  chain  of  circum- 
stantial evidence  Blaze  Turgeon  was  convicted  of 
manslaughter  and  sent  to  prison  for  ten  years.  Blaze 
himself  had  said  that  he  did  not  remember,  but  he 
could  not  believe  that  he  had  committed  the  crime. 
Robbery  ?  He  shrugged  his  shoulders  at  that,  he  in- 
sisted that  his  lawyer  should  not  reply  to  the  foolish 
and  insulting  suggestion.  But  the  evidence  went  to 
show  that  Gamache  had  all  the  winnings  when  the 
other  members  of  the  party  retired,  and  this  very 
money  had  been  found  in  Blaze's  pocket.  There  was 
only  Blaze's  word  that  they  had  played  cards  again. 
Anger?  Possibly.  Blaze  could  not  recall,  though  he 
knew  they  had  quarrelled.    The  judge  himself,  charg- 


■aOMOBtfiSB 


ING 
,v  Jean 

far  into 
ie  their 
[  begun 
nd  then 
)llection 
Lcl  pock- 

ide  him, 
eadfitl,  a 

him  he 
uld  have 
is  friend, 
)ng  hand 
ly ! "  and 

ar  him  at 
:easingly. 
if  circum- 
victed   of 
s.    Blaze 
|r,  but  he 
.\e  crime, 
at,  he  in- 
:e  fooHsh 
went  to 
when  the 
this  very 
here  was 
■ds  again. 
:hough  he 
:lf,  charg- 


THE   PRISONER 


259 


ing  the  jury,  said  that  he  never  before  Iiad  seen  a 
prisoner  so  frank,  so  outwardly  honest,  but  he  warned 
them  that  they  must  not  lose  sight  of  the  crime  itself, 
the  taking  of  a  human  life,  whereby  a  woman  was 
n^ade  a  widow  and  a  child  fatherless.  The  jury  found 
him  guilty. 

With  few  remarks  the  judge  deli  ^ercd  his  sentence, 
and  then  himself,  shaken  and  pale,  left  the  court-room 
hurriedly,  for  Blaze  Turgeon's  father  had  been  his 
friend  from  boyhood. 

Blaze  took  his  sentence  calmly,  looking  the  jury 
squarely  in  the  eyes,  and  when  the  judge  stopped, 
he  bowed  to  him,  and  then  turned  to  the  jury,  and 
said: 

"  Gentlemen,  you  have  ruined  my  life.  You  don't 
know,  and  I  don't  know,  who  killed  the  man.  You 
have  guessed,  and  I  take  the  penalty.  Suppose  I'm  in- 
nocent— how  will  you  feel  when  the  truth  comes  out? 
You've  known  me  more  or  less  these  twenty  years, 
and  you've  said,  with  evidently  no  more  knowledge 
than  I've  got,  that  I  did  this  horrible  thing.  I  don't 
know  but  that  one  of  you  did  it.  But  you  are  safe,  and 
I  take  my  ten  years !  " 

He  turned  from  them,  and,  as  he  did  so,  he  saw  a 
woman  looking  at  him  from  a  corner  of  the  court- 
room, with  a  strange,  wild  expression.  At  the  moment 
he  saw  no  more  than  an  excited,  bewildered  face,  but 
afterwards  this  face  came  and  went  before  him,  flashing 
in  and  out  of  dark  places  in  a  kind  of  mockery. 

As  he  v/ent  from  the  court-room  anc*^her  woman 
made  her  way  to  him  in  spite  of  the  guards.  It  was 
the  Little  Chemist's  wife  who,  years  before,  had  been 
his  father's  housekeeper,  who  knew  him  when  his  eyes 
first  opened  on  the  world. 


26o   THE  LANE  THAT  HAD  NO  TURNING 

"  My  poor  Blaze !  my  poor  Blaze !  "  she  said,  clasp- 
ing his  manacled  hands. 


In  prison  he  refused  to  see  all  visitors,  even  Medal- 
lion, the  Little  Chemist's  wife,  and  the  good  Father 
Fabre.  Letters,  too,  he  refused  to  accept  and  read. 
He  had  no  contact,  wished  no  contact  with  the  outer 
world,  but  lived  his  hard,  lonely  life  by  himself,  silent, 
studious — for  now  books  were  a  pleasure  to  him.  He 
had  entered  his  prison  a  wild,  excitable,  dissipated 
youth,  and  he  had  become  a  mature,  brooding  man. 
Five  years  had  done  the  work  of  twenty. 

The  face  of  the  woman  who  looked  at  him  so 
strangely  in  the  court-room  haunted  him  so  that  at  last 
it  became  a  part  of  his  real  life,  lived  largely  at  the  win- 
dow where  he  looked  out  at  the  pigeons  on  the  roof  of 
the  hospital. 

"  She  was  sorry  for  me,"  he  said  many  a  time  to  him- 
self. He  was  shaken  with  misery  often,  so  that  he 
rocked  to  and  fro  as  he  sat  on  his  bed,  and  a  warder 
heard  him  cry  out  even  in  the  last  days  of  his  imprison- 
ment: 

"  O  God,  canst  thou  do  everything  but  speak ! " 
And  again :  "  That  hour !  the  memory  of  that  hour,  m 
exchange  for  my  ruined  life !  " 

One  day  the  gaoler  came  to  him  and  said :  "  M'sieu' 
Turg(!on,  you  are  free.  The  Governor  has  cut  off 
five  years  from  your  sentence." 

Then  he  was  told  that  people  were  waiting  without 
— Medallion,  the  Little  Chemist  and  his  v/ife,  and 
others  more  important.  But  he  would  not  go  to  meet 
them,  and  he  stepped  into  the  open  world  alone  at 
dawn  the  next  morning,  and  looked  out  upon  a  still 
sleeping  village.     Suddenly  there  stood  before  him  a 


ING 
I,  clasp- 


t  Medal- 
[  Father 
nd  read, 
he  outer 
;lf,  silent, 
lim.    He 
Ussipated 
ing  man. 

t  him  so 
hat  at  last 
Lt  the  win- 
he  roof  of 

lie  to  him- 
50  that  he 
I  a  warder 
;  imprison- 

X  speak  1 " 
lat  hour,  ^n 

"  M'sieii' 
lias  cut  off 

|ng  without 

wife,  and 

go  to  meet 

lid  alone  at 

liipon  a  still 

;fore  him  a 


THE    PRISONER 


261 


woman,  who  had  watched  by  the  prison  gates  all 
night ;  and  she  put  out  her  hand  in  entreaty,  and  said 
with  a  breaking  voice :  "  You  are  free  at  last !  " 

He  remembered  her — the  woman  who  had  looked 
at  him  so  anxiously  and  sorrowfully  in  the  court- 
room. 

"  Why  did  you  come  to  meet  me?  "  he  asked. 

"  I  was  sorry  for  you." 

"  But  that  is  no  reason." 

"  I  once  committed  a  crime,"  she  whispered,  with 
shrinking  bitterness. 

"  That's  bad,"  he  said.  "  Were  you  punished  ?  " 
He  looked  at  her  keenly,  almost  fiercely,  for  a  curious 
suspicion  shot  into  his  mind. 

She  shook  her  head  and  answered  no. 

"  That's  worse !  " 

"  I  let  some  one  else  take  my  crime  upon  him  and  be 
punished  for  it,"  she  said,  an  agony  in  her  eyes. 

"Why  was  that?" 

"  I  had  a  little  child,"  was  her  reply. 

**  And  the  man  who  was  punished  instead  ?  " 

**  He  was  alone  in  the  world,"  she  said. 

A  bitter  smile  crept  to  his  lips,  and  his  face  was  afire. 
He  shut  his  eyes,  and  when  they  opened  again  dis- 
covery was  in  them. 

"  I  remember  you  now,"  he  said.  "  I  remember 
now  I  waked  and  saw  you  looking  at  me  that  night! 
iWho  was  the  father  of  your  child?  " 

"  Jean  Gamache,"  she  replied.  **  He  ruined  me  and 
left  me  to  starve." 

"  I  am  innocent  of  his  death!  "  he  said  quicL-}  and 
gladly. 

She  nodded.  He  was  silent  for  a  moment.  "  The 
child  still  lives  ?  "  he  asked.  She  nodded  again.  "  Well, 


'.^^: 


262    THE  LANE  THAT  HAD  NO  TURNING 

let  it  be  so,"  he  said.  "  But  you  owe  me  five  years — 
and  a  good  name." 

"  I  wish  to  God  I  could  give  them  back !  "  she  cried, 
tears  streaming  down  her  cheeks.  "  It  was  for  my 
child ;  he  was  so  young." 

"  It  can't  be  helped  now,"  he  said,  sighing,  and  he 
turned  away  from  her. 

"  Won't  you  forgive  me  ?  "  she  asked  bitterly. 

"  Won't  you  give  me  back  those  five  years  ?  " 

"  If  the  child  did  not  need  me  I  would  give  my  life," 
she  answered.     "  I  owe  it  to  you." 

Her  haggard,  hunted  face  made  him  sorry ;  he,  too, 
had  sufifered. 

"  It's  all  right,"  he  answered  gently.  "  Take  care  of 
your  child." 

Again  he  moved  away  from  her,  and  went  down  the 
little  hill,  with  a  cloud  gone  from  his  face  that  had 
rested  there  five  years.  Once  he  turned  to  look  back. 
The  woman  was  gone,  but  over  the  prison  a  flock  of 
pigeons  were  flying.     He  took  off  his  hat  to  them. 

Then  he  went  through  the  town,  looking  neither  to 
right  nor  left,  and  came  to  his  own  house,  where  the 
summer  morning  was  already  entering  the  open  win- 
dows, though  he  had  thought  to  find  the  place  closed 
and  dark. 

The  Little  Chemist's  wife  met  him  in  the  doorway. 
She  could  not  speak,  nor  could  he,  but  he  kissed  her  as 
he  had  done  when  he  went  condemned  to  prison.  Then 
he  passed  on  to  his  own  room,  and  entering,  sat  down 
before  the  open  window,  and  peacefully  drank  in  the 
glory  of  a  new  world.  Lat  more  than  once  he  choked 
down  a  sob  rising  in  his  throat. 


INING 

re  years — 

she  cried, 
as  for  my 

\g,  and  he 


erly. 

•sr 

^e  my  Hfe, 


ff 


-y ;  he,  too, 

ake  care  of 

it  down  the 
:e  that  had 
)  look  back, 
n  a  flock  of 
to  them, 
g  neither  to 
J,  where  the 
e  open  win- 
place  closed 

he  doorway, 
kissed  her  as 
orison.  Then 
ng,  sat  down 
drank  in  the 
ce  he  choked 


AN   UPSET   PRICE 


a 

V 

a 
n 
o 
tc 
w 
sc 


ta 

d< 
vi 
n( 


b 
o 
C 
e( 
w 
n( 
af 
dc 


AN   UPSET   PRICE 


ONCE  Secord  was  as  fine  a  man  to  look  at  as  you 
would  care  to  see :  with  a  large,  intelligent  eye, 
a  clear,  healthy  skin,  and  a  full,  brown  beard.  He 
walked  with  a  spring,  had  the  gift  of  conversation, 
and  took  life  as  he  found  it :  never  too  seriously,  yet 
never  careles  ly.  That  was  before  he  left  the  village 
of  Pontiac  in  Quebec  to  offer  himself  as  a  surgeon 
to  the  America*^  Army.  When  he  came  back  there 
was  a  change  ij  him.  He  was  still  handsome,  but 
something  of  the  spring  had  gone  from  his  walk,  the 
quick  light  of  his  eyes  had  given  place  to  a  dark,  dreamy 
expression,  his  skin  became  a  little  dulled,  and  his 
talk  slower,  though  not  less  musical  or  pleasant.  In- 
deed, his  conversation  had  distinctly  improved.  Pre- 
viously there  was  an  undercurrent  of  seif-conscious- 
ness  ;  it  was  all  gone  now.  He  talked  as  one  knowing 
his  audience.  His  office  became  again,  as  it  had 
been  before,  a  rendezvous  for  the  few  interesting  -^n 
of  the  place,  including  the  Avocat,  the  Cure,  the  Little 
Chemist,  and  Medallion.  Th*-/  played  chess  ana 
ecarte  for  certain  hours  of  certain  evenings  in  the 
week  at  Secord's  house.  Medallion  was  the  first  to 
notice  that  the  wife — whom  Secord  had  married  soon 
after  he  came  back  from  the  war — occasionally  put 
down  her  work  and  looked  with  a  curious  inquirinc- 
expression  at  her  husband  as  he  talked.      It  struck 


266   THE  LANE  THAT  HAD  NO  TURNING 


Medallion  that  she  was  puzzled  by  some  change  in 
Secord. 

Secord  was  a  brilliant  surgeon,  and  with  the  knife 
in  his  hand,  or  beside  a  sick  bed,  was  admirable.  His 
intuitive  perception,  so  necessary  in  a  physician,  was 
very  fine :  he  appeared  to  get  at  the  core  of  a  patient's 
trouble,  and  to  decide  upon  necessary  action  with  in- 
stant and  absolute  confidence.  Some  delicate  opera- 
tion performed  by  him  was  recorded  ana  praised  in 
the  Lancet,  and  he  was  offered  a  responsible  post  in 
a  medical  college  and,  Pt  the  same  time,  the  good-will 
of  a  valuable  practice.  He  declined  both,  to  the  last- 
ing astonishment,  yet  personal  joy,  of  the  Cure  and  the 
Avocat ;  but,  as  time  went  on,  not  so  much  to  the  sur- 
prise of  the  Little  Chemist  and  Medallion.  After  three 
years,  the  sleepy  Little  Chem»ist  waked  up  suddenly 
in  his  chair  one  day  and  said;  '^  Parbleu!  God  bless 
me !  "  (he  Icved  to  mix  his  native  language  with  Eng- 
lish), got  up  and  went  over  to  Secord's  office,  adjusted 
his  glasses,  looked  at  Secord  closely,  caught  his  hand 
with  both  of  his  own,  shook  it  with  shy  abruptness, 
came  back  to  his  shop,  sat  down,  and  said :  "  God  bless 
my  soul !     Regarded  ga!  " 

Medallion  made  his  discovery  sooner.  Watching 
closely  he  had  seen  a  pronounced  deliberation  infused 
through  all  Secord's  indolence  of  manner,  and  noticed 
that  often,  before  doing  anything,  the  big  eyes  debated 
steadfastly,  and  the  long,  slender  fin^;ers  ran  down  the 
beard  softly.  At  times  there  was  a  deep  meditative- 
ness  in  the  eye,  again  a  dusky  fire.  But  there  was  a 
certain  charm  through  it  all — a  languid  precision,  a 
slumbering  look  in  the  face,  a  vague  undercurrent  in 
the  voice,  a  fantastical  flavour  to  the  thought.  The 
change  had  come  so  gradually  that  only  Medallion 


IG 


AN    UPSET   PRICE 


267 


je  in 

knife 

His 

was 
ient's 
th  in- 
)pera- 
ed  in 
ost  in 
d-will 
e  last- 
nd  the 
10  sur- 
r  three 
ddenly 
d  bless 
h  Eng- 
dj  listed 
is  hand 
iptness, 
3d  bless 

atching 
infused 
noticed 
debated 
own  the 
ditative- 
•e  was  a 
:ision,  a 
iirent  in 
it.  The 
[edallion 


and  the  wife  had  a  real  conception  of  how  great  it  was. 
Medallion  had  studied  Sccord  from  every  standpoint. 
At  the  very  first  he  wondered  if  there  was  a  woman  in 
it.  Much  thinking  on  a  woman,  whose  influence  on 
his  life  was  evil  or  disturbing,  might  account  some- 
what for  the  change  in  Secord.  But,  seeing  how  fond 
the  man  was  of  his  wife.  Medallion  gave  up  that  idea. 
It  was  not  liquor,  for  Secord  never  touched  it.  One 
day,  however,  when  Medallion  was  selling  ilie  furniture 
of  a  house,  he  put  up  a  feather  bed,  and,  as  was  his 
custom — for  he  was  a  whimsical  fellow — let  his  hu- 
mour have  play.  Pie  used  many  metaphors  as  to  the 
virtue  of  the  bed,  crowning  them  with  the  statement 
that  you  slept  in  it  dreaming  as  delicious  dreams  as 

though  you  had  eaten  poppy,  or  mandragora,  or 

He  stopped  short,  said,  "  By  jingo,  that's  it !"  knocked 
the  bed  down  instantly,  and  was  an  utter  failure  for, 
the  rest  of  the  day. 

The  wife  was  longer  in  discovering  the  truth,  but  a 
certain  morning,  as  her  husband  lay  sleeping  after  an 
all-night  sitting  with  a  patient,  she  saw  lying  beside 
him — it  had  dropped  from  his  waistcoat  pocket — a  little 
bottle  full  of  a  dark  liquid.  She  knew  that  he  always 
carried  his  medicine-phials  in  a  pocket-case.  She  got 
the  case,  and  saw  that  none  was  missing.  She  noticed 
that  the  cork  of  the  phial  was  well-worn.  She  took 
it  out  and  smelled  the  liquid.  Then  she  understood. 
She  waited  and  watched.  She  saw  him  after  he  waked 
look  watchfully  round,  quietly  take  a  wineglass,  and 
let  the  liquid  come  drop  by  drop  into  it  from  the  point 
of  his  forefinger.  Henceforth  she  read  with  under- 
standing the  changes  in  his  manner,  and  saw  behind 
the  mingled  abstraction  and  fanciful  meditation  of  his 
talk. 


268   THE  LANE  THAT  HAD  NO  TURNING 


She  had  not  yet  made  up  her  mind  what  to  do.  She 
saw  that  he  hid  it  from  her  assiduously.  He  did  so 
more  because  he  wished  not  to  pain  her  than  from 
furtiveness.  By  nature  he  was  open  and  brave,  and 
had  always  had  a  reputation  for  plainness  and  sincerity. 
She  was  in  no  sense  his  equal  in  intelligence  or  judg- 
ment, nor  even  in  instinct.  She  was  a  woman  of  more 
impulse  and  constitutional  good-nature  than  depth. 
It  is  probable  that  he  knew  that,  and  refrained  from 
letting  her  into  the  knowledge  of  this  vice,  contracted 
in  the  war  when,  seriously  ill,  he  v;as  able  to  drag  him- 
self about  from  patient  to  patient  only  by  the  help  of 
opium.  He  was  alive  to  h!s  position  and  its  conse- 
quences, and  faced  it.  He  had  no  children,  and  he  was 
glad  of  this  for  one  reason.  He  could  do  nothing  now 
without  the  drug ;  it  was  as  necessary  as  light  to  him. 
The  little  botUe  had  been  his  friend  so  long  that,  with 
his  finger  en  its  smooth-edged  cork,  it  was  as  though 
he  held  the  tap  of  life. 

The  Litth  Chemist  and  Medallion  kept  the  thing  to 
themselves,  but  they  understood  each  other  in  the  mat- 
ter, and  wondered  what  they  could  do  to  cure  him. 
The  Little  Chemist  only  shrank  back,  and  said,  "  No, 
nc,  pardon,  my  friend !  "  when  Medallion  suggested 
that  he  should  speak  to  Secord.  But  the  Little 
Chemist  was  greatly  concerned — for  had  not  Secord 
saved  \m,  beloved  wiie  by  a  clever  operation  ?  and  was 
it  not  her  custom  to  devote  a  certain  hour  every  week 
to  the  welfare  of  Secord's  soul  and  body,  before  the 
shrine  of  ihe  Virgin  ?  Her  husband  told  her  now  that 
Secord  was  in  ^fouble,  and  though  he  was  far  from 
being  devout  himself,  he  had  a  shy  faith  in  the  great 
sincerity  of  his  wife.  She  did  her  best,  and  increased 
her  offerings  of  flowers  to  the  shrine ;  also,  in  her 


NG 


AN    UPSET   PRICE 


269 


.     She 
did  so 
1  from 
e,  and 
icerity. 
-  judg- 
)f  more 
depth, 
d  from 
itracted 
ig  him- 
help  of 
conse- 
l  he  was 
ng  now 
to  him. 
lat,  with 
though 

thing  to 
the  mat- 
ire  him. 
A,  "  No, 
iggested 
e    Little 
t  Secord 
and  was 
2ry  week 
efore  the 
now  that 
far  from 
he  great 
Increased 
3,  in  her 


simplicity,  she  sent  Secord's  wife  little  jars  of  jam  to 
comfort  him. 

One  evening  the  little  coterie  met  by  arrangement  at 
the  doctor's  house.  After  waiting  an  hour  or  two  for 
Secord,  who  liad  been  called  away  to  a  critical  case,  the 
Avocat  and  the  Cure  went  home,  leaving  polite  old- 
fashioned  messages  for  their  absent  host ;  but  the  Little 
Chemist  and  Aledaliion  remained.  For  a  time  Mrs. 
Secord  remained  witii  them,  then  retired,  begging 
them  to  await  her  husband,  vvlio,  she  knew,  would  be 
grateful  if  they  stayed.  The  Little  Chemist,  with  timid 
courtesy,  showed  her  out  of  the  room,  then  came  back 
and  sat  down.  They  were  very  silent.  The  Little 
Chemist  took  off  his  glasses  a  half-dozen  times,  wipeci 
them,  and  put  them  back.  Then  suddenly  turned  on 
Medallion.     "  You  mean  to  speak  to-night?  " 

"  Yes,  that's  what  I  intend,  just  here." 

"  Regarded  ca — well,  well !  " 

Medallion  never  smoked  harder  than  he  did  then. 
The  Little  Chemist  looked  at  him  nervously  again  and 
again,  listened  towards  the  door,  fingered  with  his 
tumbler,  and  at  last  hearing  the  sound  of  sleigh-bells, 
suddenly  came  to  his  feet,  and  said :  '*  Voilh,  I  will  go 
to  my  wife."  And  catching  up  his  cap,  and  forgetting 
his  overcoat,  he  trotted  away  home  in  fright. 

What  Medallion  did  or  said  to  Secord  that  night 
neither  ever  told.  But  it  must  have  been  a  singular 
scene,  for  when  the  humourist  pleads  or  prays  there  is 
no  pathos  like  it ;  and  certainly  Medallion's  eyes  were 
red  when  he  rapped  up  the  Little  Chemist  at  dawn, 
caught  him  by  the  shoulders,  turned  him  round  several 
times,  thumped  him  on  the  back,  and  called  him  a 
bully  old  boy;  and  then,  seeing  the  old  wife  in  her 
quaint  padded  nightgown,  suddenly  hugged  her,  threw 


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270    THE  LANE  THAT  HAD  NO  TURNING 


t 


himself  into  a  chair  and  almost  shouted  for  a  cup  of 
coffee. 

At  the  same  time  Mrs.  Secord  was  alternately  crying 
and  laughing  in  her  husband's  arms,  and  he  was  saying 
to  her :  "  I'll  make  a  fight  for  it,  Lesley,  a  big  fight ;  but 
you  must  be  patient,  for  I  expect  I'll  be  a  devil  some- 
times without  it.  Why,  I've  eaten  a  drachm  a  day  of 
the  stuff,  or  drunk  its  equivalent  in  the  tincture. 
No,  never  mind  praying ;  be  a  brick  and  fight  with  me : 
that's  the  game,  my  girl." 

He  did  make  a  fight  for  it,  such  an  one  as  few  men 
have  made  and  come  out  safely.  For  those  who  dwell 
in  the  Pit  never  suffer  as  do  they  who  struggle  with 
this  appetite.  He  was  too  wise  to  give  it  up  all  at 
once.  He  diminished  the  dose  gradually,  but  still 
very  perceptibly.  As  it  was,  it  made  a  marked  change 
in  him.  The  necessary  effort  of  the  will  gave  a  kind 
of  hard  coldness  to  his  face,  and  he  used  to  walk  his 
garden  for  hours  at  night  in  conflict  with  his  enemy. 
His  nerves  were  uncertain,  but,  strange  to  say,  when 
(it  was  not  often)  any  serious  case  of  illness  came  under 
his  hands,  he  was  somehow  able  to  pull  himself  to- 
gether and  do  his  task  gallantly  enough.  But  he  had 
had  no  important  surgical  case  since  he  began  his 
cure.  In  his  heart  he  lived  in  fear  of  one ;  for  he  was 
not  quite  sure  of  himself.  In  spite  of  effort  to  the 
contrary  he  became  irritable,  and  his  old  pleasant 
fantasies  changed  to  gloomy  and  bizarre  imaginings. 

The  wife  never  knew  what  it  cost  her  husband  thus, 
day  by  day,  to  take  a  foe  by  the  throat  and  hold  him  in 
check.  She  did  not  guess  that  he  knew  if  he  dropped 
back  even  once  he  could  not  regain  himself :  this  was 
his  idiosyncrasy.  He  did  not  find  her  a  great  help  to 
him  in  his  trouble.     She  was  affectionate,  but  she  had 


tarn 


mimmm 


mgg/gggsrf"- 


ING 
cup  of 

'  crying 
;  saying 
rht ;  but 
il  some- 
1  day  of 
tincture, 
vith  me : 

[ew  men 
ho  dwell 
gle  with 
Lip  all  at 
but  still 
d  change 
^e  a  kind 
walk  his 
s  enemy, 
ay,  when 
me  under 
mself  to- 
ut he  had 
)egan  bis 
3r  he  was 
)rt  to  the 
pleasant 
laginings. 

and  thus, 
Did  him  in 

e  dropped 
this  was 

at  help  to 

at  she  had 


AN   UPSET   PRICE 


271 


not  much  penetration  even  where  he  was  concerned, 
and  she  did  not  grasp  how  much  was  at  stake.  She 
thought  indeed  that  he  should  be  able  to  give  it  up  all 
at  once.  He  was  tender  with  her,  but  he  wished  often 
that  she  could  understand  him  without  explanation  on 
his  part.  Many  a  time  he  took  out  the  little  bottle 
with  a  reckless  hand,  but  conquered  himself.  He  got 
most  help,  perhaps,  from  the  honest,  cheerful  eye  of 
Medallion  and  the  stumbling,  timorous  aflection  of 
the  Little  Chemist.  They  were  perfectly  disinterested 
friends — his  wife  at  times  made  him  aware  that  he  had 
done  her  a  wrong,  for  he  had  married  her  with  this 
appetite  on  him.  He  did  not  defend  himself,  but  he 
wished  she  would — even  if  she  had  to  act  it — make  him 
believe  in  himself  more.  One  morning  against  his  will 
he  was  irritable  with  her,  and  she  said  something  that 
burnt  like  caustic.  He  smiled  ironically  and  pushed 
his  newspaper  over  to  her,  pointing  to  a  paragraph. 
It  was  the  announcement  that  an  old  admirer  of  hers 
whom  she  had  passed  by  for  her  husband,  had  come 
into  a  fortune.  "  Perhaps  you've  made  a  mistake," 
he  said. 

She  answered  nothing,  but  the  look  she  gave  was 
unfortunate  for  both.  He  muffled  his  mouth  in  his 
long,  silken  beard  as  if  to  smother  what  he  felt  impelled 
to  say,  then  suddenly  rose  and  left  the  table. 

At  this  time  he  had  reduced  his  dose  of  the  drug  to 
eight  drops  twice  a  day.  With  a  grim  courage  he 
rocolved  to  make  it  five  all  at  once.  He  did  so,  and 
held  to  it.  Medallion  was  much  with  him  in  these 
days.  One  morning  in  the  spring  he  got  up,  went  out 
in  his  garden,  drew  in  the  fresh,  sweet  air  with  a  great 
gulp,  picked  some  lovely  crab-apple  blossoms,  and, 
with  a  strange  glowing  look  in  his  eyes,  came  in  to 


272    THE  LANE  THAT  HAD  NO  TURNING 


his  wife,  put  them  into  her  hands,  and  kissed  her.  It 
was  the  anniversary  of  their  wedding-day.  Then, 
without  a  word,  he  took  from  his  pocket  the  Httle  phial 
that  he  had  carried'  so  long,  rolled  it  for  an  instant  in 
his  palm,  felt  its  worn,  discoloured  cork  musingly,  and 
threw  it  out  of  the  window. 

"  Now,  my  dear,"  he  whispered,  "  we  will  be  happy 
again." 

He  held  to  his  determination  with  a  stern  anxiety. 
He  took  a  month's  vacation,  and  came  back  better.  He 
was  not  so  happy  as  he  hoped  to  be ;  yet  he  would  not 
whisper  to  himself  the  reason  why.  He  felt  that  some- 
thing had  failed  him  somewhere. 

One  day  a  man  came  riding  swiftly  up  to  his  door  to 
say  that  his  wife's  father  had  met  with  a  bad  accident 
in  his  great  mill.  Secord  told  his  wife.  A  peculiar 
troubled  look  came  into  his  face  as  he  glanced  carefully 
over  his  instruments  and  through  his  medicine  case. 

"  God !  I  must  do  it  alone,"  he  said. 

The  old  man's  injury  was  a  dangerous  one :  a  skilful 
operation  was  necessary.  As  Secord  stood  beside  the 
sufferer,  he  felt  his  nerves  suddenly  go — ^just  as  they 
did  in  the  War  before  he  first  took  the  drug.  His  wife 
was  in  the  next  room — he  could  hear  her;  he  wished 
she  would  make  no  sound  at  all.  Unless  this  opera- 
tion was  performed  successfully  the  sufferer  would  die 
— he  might  die  anyhow.  Secord  tried  to  gather  him- 
self up  to  his  task,  but  he  felt  it  was  of  no  use.  A 
month  later  when  he  was  more  recovered  physically 
he  would  be  able  to  perform  the  operation,  but  the  old 
man  was  dying  now,  while  he  stood  helplessly  stroking 
his  big  brown  beard.  He  took  up  his  pocket  medicine- 
case,  and  went  out  where  his  wife  was. 

Excited  and  tearful,  she  started  up  to  meet  him, 


her.  It 
Then, 
tie  phial 
istant  in 
igly,  and 

)e  happy 

anxiety, 
itter.  He 
^ould  not 
lat  some- 
is  door  to 
I  accident 
,  pecuHar 
I  carefully 
le  case. 

a  skilful 
jeside  the 
5t  as  they 

His  wife 
he  wished 
lis  opera- 
would  die 
Lther  him- 
0  use.  A 
physically 
lut  the  old 
y  stroking 
medicine- 
meet  him, 


AN    UPSET    PRICE 


2/3 


painfully  inquiring.  *'  Can  you  save  him  ?  "  she  said. 
*'  Oh,  James,  what  is  the  matter.'*    You  are  trembling." 

"  It's  just  this  way,  Lesley :  my  nerve  is  broken ;  I 
can't  perform  the  operation  as  1  am,  and  he  will  die 
in  an  hour  if  I  don't." 

She  caught  hmi  by  the  arm.  "  Can  you  not  l)e 
strong?  You  have  a  will.  Will  you  not  try  to  save 
my  father,  James?     Is  there  no  way?  " 

"  Yes,  there  is  one  way,"  he  said.  He  opened  the 
pocket-case  and  took  out  a  phial  of  laudanum.  "  This 
is  the  way.  I  can  pull  myself  together  with  it.  It  will 
save  his  life."     There  was  a  dogged  look  in  his  face. 

"  Well?  well?  "  she  said.  "  Oh,  my  dear  father!— 
will  you  not  keep  him  here  ?  " 

A  peculiar  cold  smile  hovered  about  his  lips.  "  But 
there  is  danger  to  me  in  this  .  .  .  and  remember, 
he  is  very  old  !  " 

"  Oh,"  she  cried,  "  how  can  you  be  so  shocking,  so 
cruel !  "  She  rocked  herself  to  and  fro.  "  If  it  will 
save  him — and  you  need  not  take  it  again,  ever !  " 

"  But,  I  tell  you " 

"Do  you  not  hear  him — he  is  dying!"  She  was 
mad  with  grief ;  she  hardly  knew  what  she  said. 

Without  a  word  he  dropped  the  tincture  swiftly  in  a 
wineglass  of  water,  drank  it  off,  shivered,  drew  him- 
self up  with  a  start,  gave  a  sigh  as  if  some  huge  struggle 
was  over,  and  went  in  to  where  the  old  man  was. 
Three  hours  after  he  told  his  wife  that  her  father  was 
safe. 

When,  after  a  hasty  kiss,  she  left  him  and  went  into 
the  room  of  sickness,  and  the  door  closed  after  her, 
standing  where  she  had  left  him  he  laughed  a  hard 
crackliij^  laugh,  and  said  between  his  teeth : 

*'  An  upset  price !  " 

i8  •■       • 


274    THE  LANE  THAT  HAD  NO  TURNING 

Then  he  poured  out  another  portion  of  the  dark 
tincture — the  largest  he  had  ever  taken — and  tossed 
it  off. 

That  night  he  might  have  been  seen  feeHng  about 
the  grass  in  a  moon-Ht  garden.  At  last  he  put  some- 
thing in  his  pocket  with  a  quick,  harsh  chuckle  of 
satisfaction.  It  was  a  little  black  bottle  with  a  well- 
worn  cork. 


SIING 

he  dark 
1  tossed 

ig  about 
at  some- 
uckle  of 
I  a  well- 


A  FRAGMENT   OF   LIVES 


ft.. 

e 

g 

gl 
n 

n* 
h; 

di 

ti< 

in 


a 

hi 
sa 


A   FRAGMENT  OF   LIVES 


THEY  met  at  last,  Dubarre,  and  Villiard  the  man 
who  had  stolen  from  him  the  woman  he  loved. 
Both  had  wronged  the  woman,  but  Villiard  most,  for 
he  had  let  her  die  because  of  jealousy. 

They  were  now  in  a  room  alone  in  the  forest  of  St. 
Sebastian.  Both  were  quiet,  and  both  knew  that  the 
end  of  their  hatred  was  near. 

Going  to  a  cupboard  Dubarre  brought  out  four 
glasses  and  put  them  on  the  table.  Then  from  two 
bottles  he  poured  out  what  looked  like  red  wine,  two 
glasses  from  each  bottle.  Putting  the  bottles  back  he 
returned  to  the  table. 

"  Do  you  dare  to  drink  with  me  ?  "  Dubarre  asked, 
nodding  towards  the  glasses.  "  Two  of  the  glasses 
have  poison  in  them,  two  have  good  red  wine  only. 
We  will  move  them  about  and  then  drink.  Both  may, 
die,  or  only  one  of  us."  . 

Villiard  looked  at  the  other  with  contracting,  ques- 
tioning eyes. 

"  You  would  play  that  game  with  me  ?  "  he  asked 
in  a  mechanical  voice. 

**  It  would  give  me  great  pleasure."  The  voice  had 
a  strange,  ironical  tone.  "  It  is  a  grand  sport — as  one 
would  take  a  run  at  a  crevasse  and  clear  it,  or  fall.  If 
we  both  fall,  we  are  in  good  company;  if  you  fall,  I 
have  the  greater  joy  of  escape ;  if  I  fall,  you  have  the 
same  joy." 


2;S  THE  LANE  THAT  HAD  NO  TURNING 

"  I  am  ready,"  was  the  answer.  "  But  let  us  eat 
first." 

A  great  fire  burned  in  the  chimney,  for  the  night 
was  cool.  It  filled  the  room  with  a  gracious  heat  and 
with  huge,  comfortable  shadows.  Here  and  there  on 
the  wall  a  tin  cup  flashed  back  the  radiance  of  the  fire, 
the  barrel  of  a  gun  glistened  soberly  along  a  rafter, 
and  the  long,  wiry  hair  of  an  otter-skin  in  the  corner 
sent  out  little  needles  of  light.  Upon  the  fire  a  pot 
was  simmering,  and  a  good  savour  came  from  it.  A 
wind  went  lilting  by  outside  the  hut  in  tune  with  the 
singing  of  the  kettle.  The  ticking  of  a  huge,  old- 
fashioned  repeating-watch  on  the  wall  was  in  unison 
with  these. 

Dubarre  rose  from  the  table,  threw  himself  upon  the 
little  pile  of  otter-skins,  and  lay  watching  Villiard  and 
mechanically  studying  the  little  room. 

Villiard  took  the  four  glasses  filled  with  the  wine 
and  laid  them  on  a  shelf  against  the  wall,  then  began 
to  put  the  table  in  order  for  their  supper,  and  to  take 
the  pot  from  the  fire. 

Dubarre  noticed  that  just  above  where  the  glasses 
stood  on  the  shelf  a  crucifix  was  hanging,  and  that 
red  crystal  sparkled  in  the  hands  and  feet  where  the 
nails  should  be  driven  in.  There  was  a  painful  humour 
in  the  association.  He  smiled,  then  turned  his  head 
away,  for  old  memories  flashed  through  his  brain — 
he  had  been  an  acolyte  once :  he  had  served  at  the  altar. 

Suddenly  Dubarre  rose,  took  the  glasses  from  the 
shelf  and  placed  them  in  the  middle  of  the  table — the 
death's  head  for  the  feast. 

As  they  sat  down  to  eat,  the  eyes  of  both  men  un- 
consciously wandered  to  the  crucifix,  attracted  by  the 
red  sparkle  of  the  rubies.    They  drank  water  with  the 


ING 

us  eat 

e  night 
eat  and 
here  on 
the  fire, 
I  rafter, 
;  corner 
re  a  pot 
n  it.    A 
with  the 
ige,  old- 
1  unison 

upon  the 
Hard  and 

the  wine 
en  began 
d  to  take 

le  glasses 

and  that 

vhere  the 

il  humour 

his  head 
s  brain — ■ 
;  the  altar. 

from  the 
table— the 

men  un- 
;ed  by  the 
r  with  the 


A   FRAGMENT   OF   LIVES 


279 


well-cooked  meat  of  the  wapiti,  though  red  wine  faced 
them  on  the  table.  Each  ate  heartily;  as  though  a 
long  day  were  before  them  and  not  the  shadow  of  the 
Long  Night.  There  was  no  speech  save  that  of  the 
usual  courtesies  of  the  table.  The  fire,  and  the  wind, 
and  the  watch  seemed  the  only  living  things  besides 
themselves,  perched  there  between  heaven  and  earth. 

At  length  the  meal  was  finished,  and  the  two  turned 
in  their  chairs  towards  the  fire.  There  was  no  other 
light  in  the  room,  and  on  the  faces  of  the  two,  still  and 
cold,  the  flame  played  idly. 

"  When  ?  "  said  Dubarre  at  last. 

"  Not  yet,"  was  the  quiet  reply. 

"  I  was  thinking  of  my  first  theft — an  apple  from  my 
brother's  plate,"  said  Dubarre  with  a  dry  smile. 
"  You  ?  " 

"  I,  of  my  first  lie." 

"  That  apple  was  the  sweetest  fruit  I  ever  tasted." 

"And  I  took  the  penalty  of  the  lie,  but  I  had  no 
sorrow." 

Again  there  was  silence. 
Now  ?  "  asked  Villiard,  after  an  hour  had  passed. 
I  am  ready." 

They  came  to  the  table. 
Shall  we  bind  our  eyes  ?  "  asked  Dubarre.    "  I 


« 


« 


<( 


>» 


do  not  know  the  glasses  that  hold  the  poison.' 

"  Nor  I  the  bottles  that  held  it.  I  will  turn  my  back, 
and  do  you  change  about  the  glasses." 

Villiard  turned  his  face  towards  the  timepiece  on  the 
wall.  As  he  did  so  it  began  to  strike — a  clear,  silvery 
chime :  "  One !  two !  three " 

Before  it  had  finished  striking  both  men  were  facing 
the  glasses  again. 

"  Take  one,"  said  Dubarre. 


280  THE  LANE  THAT  HAD  NO  TURNING 


Villiard  took  the  one  nearest  himself.  Dubarre  took 
one  also.  Without  a  word  they  lifted  the  glasses  and 
drank. 

"  Apain,"  said  Dubarre. 

"  You  choose,"  responded  Villiard. 

Dubarre  lifted  the  one  nearest  himself,  and  Villiard 
picked  up  the  other.  Raising  their  glasses  again,  they 
bowed  to  each  other  and  d»-ank. 

The  watch  struck  twelve,  and  stopped  its  silvery 
chiming. 

They  both  sat  down,  looking  at  each  other,  the  light 
of  an  enormous  chance  in  their  eyes,  the  tragedy  of  a 
great  stake  in  their  clenched  hands ;  but  the  deeper, 
intenser  power  was  in  the  face  of  Dubarre,  the  ex- 
plorer. 

There  was  more  than  power ;  malice  drew  down  the 
brows  and  curled  the  sensitive  upper  lip.  Each  man 
watched  the  other  for  knowledge  of  his  own  fate.  The 
glasses  lay  straggling  along  the  table,  emptied  of  death 
and  life. 

All  at  once  a  horrible  pallor  spread  over  the  face  of 
Villiard,  and  his  head  jerked  forward.  He  grasped 
the  table  with  both  hands,  twitching  and  trembling. 
His  eyes  stared  wildly  at  Dubarie,  to  whose  face  the 
flush  of  wine  had  come,  whose  look  was  now  mali- 
ciously triumphant. 

Villiard  had  drunk  both  glasses  of  the  poison ! 

"  I  win  I  "  Dubarre  stood  up.  Then,  leaning  over 
the  table  towards  the  dying  man,  he  added :  "  You  let 
her  die — well!  Would  you  know  the  truth?  She 
loved  you — always !  " 

Villiard  gasped,  and  his  look  wandered  vaguely 
along  the  opposite  wall. 

Dubarre  went  on.    "  I  played  the  game  with'  you 


NG 


A   FRAGMENT   OF    LIVES 


281 


c  took 
es  and 


/illiard 
n, they 

silvery 

he  light 
:dy  of  a 
deeper, 
the  ex- 
own  the 
ich  man 
te.    The 
of  death 

e  face  of 
grasped 

embling. 
face  the 

low  maU- 


honestly,  because — because  it  was  the  greatest  man 
could  play.  And  I,  too,  sinned  against  her.  Now 
die !     She  loved  you — murderer !  " 

The  man's  look  still  wandered  distractedly  along  the 
wall.  The  sweat  of  death  was  on  his  face;  his  lip? 
were  moving  spasmodically. 

Suddenly  his  look  became  fixed ;  he  found  voice. 

"  Pardon — Jesu! "  he  said,  and  stiflfened  where  he 
sat. 

His  eyes  were  fixed  on  the  jewelled  crucifix.  Du- 
barre  snatched  it  from  the  wall,  and  hastening  to  him 
held  it  to  his  lips :  but  the  warm  sparkle  of  the  rubies 
fell  on  eyes  that  were  cold  as  frosted  glass.  Dubarre 
saw  that  he  was  dead. 

"  Because  the  woman  loved  him !  "  he  said,  gv  ing 
curiously  at  the  dead  man. 

He  turned,  went  to  the  door  and  opened  it,  for  his 
breath  choked  him. 

All  was  still  on  the  wooded  heights  and  in  the  wide 
valley. 

"  Because  the  woman  loved  him  he  repented,"  said 
Dubarre  again  with  a  half-cynical  gentleness  as  he 
placed  the  crucifix  on  the  dead  man's  breast. 


on! 

ling  over 
You  let 
Ih?     She 


vaguely 
witH  you 


^L-:''v 


yv 


i^. 


THE  MAN   THAT  DIED  AT 

ALMA 


THE  MAN  THAT  DIED  AT  ALMA 


THE  man  who  died  at  Alma  had  a  Kilkenny 
brogue  that  you  could  not  cut  with  a  knife,  but 
he  was  called  Kilquhanity,  a  name  as  Scotch  as  Mac- 
Gregor.  Kilquhanity  was  a  retired  soldier,  on  pension, 
and  Pontiac  was  a  place  of  peace  and  poverty.  The 
only  gentry  were  the  Cure,  the  Avocat,  and  the  young 
Seigneur,  but  of  the  three  the  only  one  with  a  private 
income  was  the  young  Seigneur. 

What  should  such  a  common  man  as  Kilquhanity 
do  with  a  private  income!  It  seemed  almost  sus- 
picious, instead  of  creditable,  to  the  minds  of  the  simple 
folk  at  Pontiac ;  for  they  were  French,  and  poor,  and 
laborious,  and  Kilquhanity  drew  his  pension  from  the 
headquarters  of  the  English  Government,  which  they 
only  knew  by  legends  wafted  to  them  over  great  tracts 
of  country  from  the  city  of  Quebec. 

When  Kilquhanity  first  came  with  his  wife,  it  was 
without  introductions  from  anywhere — unlike  every- 
body else  in  Pontiac,  whose  family  history  could  be 
instantly  reduced  to  an  exact  record  by  the  Cure.  He 
had  a  smattering  of  French,  which  he  turned  cfT  with 
oily  brusqueness,  he  was  not  close-mouthed,  he 
talked  freely  of  events  in  his  past  life,  and  he  told  some 
really  wonderful  tales  of  his  experiences  in  the  British 
army.  He  was  no  braggart,  however,  and  his  one 
great  story  which  gave  him  the  nickname  by  which 
he  was  called  at  Pontiac,  was  told  far  more  in  a  spirit 


,'"'..  ■•v-vr 


286   THE  LANE  THAT  HAD  NO  TURNING 


of  laughter  at  himself  than  in  praise  of  his  own  part 
in  the  incident. 

The  first  time  he  told  the  story  was  in  the  house  of 
Medallion  the  auctioneer. 

"Aw  the  night  it  was!"  said  Kilquhanity,  after  a 
pause,  blowing  a  cloud  of  tobacco  smoke  into  the  air, 
"  the  night  it  was,  me  darlins!  Bitther  cowld  in  that 
Roosian  counthry,  though  but  late  sum.mer,  and  noth- 
in'  to  ate  but  a  lump  of  bread,  no  bigger  than  a  dicky- 
bird's skull;  nothin'  to  drink  but  wather.  Turrible! 
turrible!  and  for  clothes  to  wear — Mother  of  Moses! 
that  was  a  bad  day  for  clothes !  We  got  betune  no  bar- 
rick  quilts  that  night.  No  stockiu'  had  I  insoide  me 
boots,  no  shirt  had  I  but  a  harse's  quilt  sewed  an  to 
me;  no  heart  I  had  insoide  me  body;  nothin'  at  all  but 
duty  an'  shtandin'  to  orders,  me  b'ys! 

"  Says  Sergeant-Major  Kilpatrick  to  me,  *  Kil- 
quhanity,' says  he,  *  there's  betther  places  than  River 
Alma  to  live  by,'  says  he.  *  Faith!  an'  by  the  Liffey  I 
wish  I  was  this  moment ' — Liffey's  in  ould  Ireland, 
Frenchies!  '  Eut,  Kilquhanity,'  says  he,  'faith,  an' 
it's  the  LifTey  we'll  never  see  again,  an'  put  that  in  yer 
pipe  an'  smoke  it! '    And  thrue  for  him. 

"  But  that  night,  aw  that  night!  Ivery  bone  in  me 
body  was  achin',  and  shure  me  heart  was  achin'  too, 
for  the  poor  b'ys  that  were  fightin'  hard  an'  gettin* 
little  for  it.  Bitther  cowld  it  was,  aw,  bitther  cowld  I 
and  the  b'ys  droppin'  down,  droppin',  droppin',  drop- 
pin',  wid  the  Roosian  bullets  in  thim ! 

"  *  Kilquhanity,'  says  Sergeant-Major  Kilp'.tnck  to 
me,  *  it's  this  shtandin'  still,  while  we  do  be  dropph/, 
droppin',  that  girds  the  soul  av  yer.'  Aw!  the  sight  it 
was,  the  sight  it  was!  The  b'ys  of  the  rigimint  shtand- 
in' shoulder  to  shoulder,  an*  the  faces  av  'm  blue  wid 


ING 

m  part 

Duse  of 

after  a 
the  air, 
in  that 
d  noth- 
L  dicky- 
urrible! 
Moses! 
no  bar- 
3ide  me 
d  an  to 
t  all  but 

:,  *Kil- 
n  River 
Liff ey  I 
Ireland, 
lith,  an' 
It  in  yer 

le  in  me 
lin'  too, 
'  gettin* 
■  cowld! 
1*,  drop- 

fick  to 
lropp!!i', 
i  sight  it 
;  shtand- 
)lue  wid 


THE   MAN   THAT   DIED   AT   ALMA    287 

powder,  an'  red  wid  blood,  an*  the  bits  o'  b'ys  droppin' 
round  me  loike  twigs  of  an  ould  tree  in  a  shtorm.  Just 
a  cry  an'  a  bit  av  a  gurgle  tru  the  teeth,  an'  divil  the 
wan  o'  thim  would  see  the  Liffey  side  anny  more. 

"'The  Roosians  are  chargin'!'  shouts  Sergeant- 
Major  Kilpatrick.  '  The  Roosians  are  chargin' — here 
they  come! '  Shtandin'  besoide  me  was  a  bit  of  a  lump 
of  a  b'y,  as  foine  a  lad  as  ever  shtood  in  the  boots  of 
me  rigimint — aw!  the  look  of  his  face  was  the  look  o' 
the  dead.  *  The  Roosians  are  comin' !  they're  charg- 
in'! '  says  Sergeant-Major  Kilpatrick,  and  the  bit  av  a 
b'y,  that  had  nothin'  to  eat  all  day,  throws  down  his  gun 
and  turns  round  to  run.  Eighteen  years  old  he  was,  only 
eighteen!  just  a  straight  slip  of  a  lad  from  Malahide. 
*  Hould  on!  Teddie,'  says  I,  *  hould  on!  How'll  yer 
face  yer  mother  if  yer  turn  yer  back  on  the  inimy  of  yer 
counthry? '  The  b'y  looks  me  in  the  eyes  long  enough 
to  wink  three  times,  picks  up  his  gun,  an'  shtood  loike 
a  rock,  he  did,  till  the  Roosians  charged  us,  roared  on 
us,  an'  I  saw  me  slip  of  a  b'y  go  down  under  the  sabre 
of  a  damned  Cossack!  'Mother!'  I  heard  him  say, 
'Mother!'  an'  that's  all  I  heard  him  say — and  the 
mother  waitin'  away  aflf  there  by  the  Liffey  soide! 
Aw !  wurra !  wurra !  the  b'ys  go  down  to  battle  and  the 
mothers  wait  at  home.  Some  of  the  b'ys  came  back, 
but  the  most  of  thim  shtay  where  the  battle  laves  'em. 
Wurra!  wurra!  many's  the  b'y  wint  down  that  day  by 
Alma  River,  an'  niver  come  back! 

"  There  I  was  shtandin',  when  hell  broke  loose  on 
the  b'ys  of  me  rigimint,  and  divil  the  wan  o'  me  knows 
if  I  killed  a  Roosian  that  day  or  not.  But  Sergeant- 
Major  Kilpatrick — a  bit  of  a  liar  was  the  Sergeant- 
Major — says  he,  *  It  was  tin  ye  killed,  Kilquhanity.' 
He  says  that  to  me  the  noight  that  I  left  the  rigimint 


288   THE  LANE  THAT  HAD  NO  TURNING 


I'i 


for  ever,  and  all  the  b'ys  shtandin'  round  and  liftin' 
glasses  an'  saying,  '  Kilquhanity !  Kilquhanity !  Kil- 
quhanity ! '  as  if  it  was  sugar  and  honey  in  their  mouths. 
Aw !  the  sound  of  it !  *  Kilquhanity,'  says  he,  '  it  was 
tin  ye  killed ! '  but  aw,  b'ys,  the  Sergeant-Major  was 
an  awful  liar.  If  he  could  be  doin'  annybody  anny 
good  by  lyin',  shure  he  would  be  lyin'  all  the  time. 

"  But  it's  little  I  know  how  many  I  killed,  for  I  was 
killed  meself  that  day.  A  Roosian  sabre  claved  the 
shoulder  and  neck  av  me,  an'  down  I  wint,  and  over 
me  trampled  a  squadron  of  Roosian  harses,  an'  I 
stopped  thinkin!  Aw!  so  aisy,  so  aisy,  I  slipped  away 
out  av  the  fight.  The  sbriekin'  and  roarin'  kept 
dwindlin'  and  dwindlin',  an'  I  dropped  all  into  a  foine 
shlape,  so  quiet,  so  aisy!  An'  I  thought  that  slip  av  a 
lad  from  the  Lififey  soide  was  houlding  me  hand,  and 
sayin'  *  Mother!  Mother!'  and  we  both  wint  ashlape; 
an'  the  b'ys  of  the  rigimint  when  Alma  was  over,  they 
said  to  each  other,  the  b'ys  they  said,  *  Kilquhanity's 
dead ! '  An'  the  trinches  was  dug,  an'  all  we  foine  dead 
b'ys  was  laid  in  long  rows  loike  candles  in  the  trinches. 
An'  I  was  laid  in  among  thim,  and  Sergeant-Major 
Kilpatrick  shtandin'  there  an'  looking  at  me  an*  sayin*, 
'  Poor  b'y!  poor  b'y!' 

"  But  when  they  threw  another  man  on  tap  of  me,  I 
waked  up  out  o'  that  beautiful  shlape,  and  gave  him  a 
kick.  '  Yer  not  polite,'  says  I  to  mesilf.  Shure,  I 
couldn't  shpake — there  was  no  strength  in  me.  An* 
they  threw  another  man  on,  an*  I  kicked  again,  and  the 
Sergeant-Major  he  sees  it,  an*  shouts  out :  *  Kil- 
quhanity's leg  is  kickin' ! '  says  he.  An'  they  pulled  afif 
the  two  poor  divils  that  had  been  thrown  o*  tap  o'  me, 
and  the  Sergeant-Major  lifts  me  head,  an*  he  says, 
*  Yer  not  killed,  Kilquhanity  ?  *  says  he. 


NING 


THE   MAN   THAT   DIED   AT   ALMA    289 


nd  liftin' 
ity!  Kil- 
:  mouths. 
;,  *  it  was 
ajor  was 
)dy  anny 
;ime. 

for  I  was 
laved  the 
and  over 
es,  an'  I 
ped  away 
irin'  kept 
to  a  foine 
t  slip  av  a 
hand,  and 
t  ashlape; 
over,  they 
juhanity's 
oine  dead 
;  trinches. 
mt-Major 
an*  sayin', 

p  of  me,  I 
ave  him  a 

Shure,  I 
me.  An' 
n,  and  the 
ut:    *Kil- 

pulled  afif 
tap  o'  me, 
*  he  says, 


Divil  a  word  could  I  shpake,  but  I  winked  at  him, 
and  Captain  Masham  shtandin'  by  whips  out  a  flask. 
'  Put  that  betune  his  teeth,'  says  he.  Whin  I  got  it 
there,  trust  me  fur  not  lettin*  it  go.  An'  the  Sergeant- 
Major  says  to  me,  *  I  have  hopes  of  you,  Kilquhanity, 
when  you  do  be  drinkin'  loike  that !  * 

"A  fo'nc  healthy  corpse  I  am;  an'  a  foine  thirsty 
healthy  corpse  I  am !  "  says  I. 

A  dozen  hands  stretched  out  to  give  Kilquhanity 
a  drink,  for  even  the  best  story-teller  of  Pontiac  could 
not  have  told  his  tale  so  well. 

Yet  the  success  achieved  by  Kilquhanity  at  such 
moments  was  discounted  through  long  months  of 
mingled  suspicion  and  doubtful  tolerance.  Although 
both  he  and  his  wife  were  Catholics  (so  they  said,  and 
so  it  seemed),  Kilquhanity  never  went  to  confession 
or  took  the  Blessed  Sacrament.  The  Cure  spoke  to 
Kilquhanity's  wife  about  it,  and  she  said  she  could  do 
nothing  with  her  husband.  Her  tongue  once  loosed, 
she  spoke  freely,  and  what  she  said  was  little  to  the 
credit  of  Kilquhanity.  Not  that  she  could  urge  any 
horrible  things  against  him;  but  she  railed  at  minor 
faults  till  the  Cure  dismissed  her  with  some  good  ad- 
vice upon  wives  rehearsing  their  husband's  faults,  even 
to  the  parish  priest. 

Mrs.  Kilquhanity  could  not  get  the  Cure  to  listen 
to  her,  but  she  was  more  successful  elsewhere.  One 
day  she  came  to  get  Kilquhanity's  pension,  which  was 
sent  every  three  months  through  M.  Garon,  the  Avo- 
cat.  After  she  had  handed  over  the  receipt  prepared 
beforehand  by  Kilquhanity,  she  replied  to  M.  Garon's 
inquiry  concerning  her  husband,  in  these  words: 
"  Misther  Garon,  sir,  such  a  man  it  is — enough  to 
break  the  heart  of  anny  woman.    And  the  timper  of 

X9 


"«■> 


290   THE  LANE  THAT  HAD  NO  TURNING 


him — Misther  Garon,  the  timper  of  him's  that  awful, 
awful !  No  conshideration,  and  that  ugly-hearted,  got 
whin  a  soldier  b'y !  The  things  he  does — my,  my,  the 
things  he  does ! "  She  threw  up  her  hands  with  an 
air  of  distraction. 

"  Well,  and  what  does  he  do,  Madame?  "  asked  the 
Avocat  simply. 

"  An'  what  he  says,  too — the  awful  of  it!  Ah,  the 
bad  sour  heart  in  him!  What's  he  lyin'  in  his  bed  for 
now — an'  the  New  Year  comin'  on,  whin  we  ought  to 
be  praisin'  God  an'  enjoyin'  each  other's  company  in 
this  blessed  wurruld?  What's  he  lying  betune  the 
quilts  now  fur,  but  by  token  of  the  bad  heart  in  him! 
It's  a  wicked  cowld  he  has,  an'  how  did  he  come  by  it? 
I'll  tell  ye,  Misther  Garon.  So  wild  was  he,  yesterday 
it  was  a  week,  so  black  mad  wid  somethin'  I'd  said  to 
him  and  somethin'  that  shlipped  from  me  hand  at  his 
head,  that  he  turns  his  back  on  me,  throws  opin  the 
dure,  shteps  out  into  the  shnow,  and  shtandin'  there 
alone,  he  curses  the  wide  wurruld — oh,  dear  Misther 
Garon,  he  cursed  the  wide  wurruld,  shtandin'  there 
in  the  snow.  God  forgive  the  black  heart  of  him, 
shtandin'  out  there  cursin*  the  wide  wurruld !  '* 

The  Avocat  looked  at  the  Sergeant's  wife  musingly, 
the  fingers  of  his  hands  tapping  together,  but  he  did 
not  speak :  he  was  becoming  wiser  all  in  a  moment  as 
to  the  ways  of  women. 

"  An'  now,  he's  in  bed,  the  shtrappin'  blasphemer, 
fur  the  cowld  he  got  shtandin'  there  in  the  snow  cursin' 
the  wide  wurruld.  Ah,  Misther  Garon,  pity  a  poor 
woman  that  has  to  live  wid  the  loikes  o'  that!  " 

The  Avocat  still  did  not  speak.  He  turned  his  face 
away  and  looked  out  of  the  window,  where  his  eyes 
could  see  the  little  house  on  the  hill,  which  to-day  had 


s[ING 


THE   MAN   THAT   DIED   AT  ALMA    291 


it  awful, 

rted,  got 

my,  the 

with  an 

sked  the 

Ah,  the 
s  bed  for 
ought  to 
npany  in 
tune  the 
t  in  him  I 
me  by  it? 
yesterday 
'd  said  to 
nd  at  his 

opin  the 
iin'  there 
r  Misther 
iin'  there 
t  of  him, 

musingly, 
ut  he  did 
loment  as 

isphemer, 

3W  cursin' 

y  a  poor 

d  his  face 
;  his  eyes 
o-day  had 


the  Union  Jack  flying  in  honour  of  some  battle  or 
some  victory,  dear  to  Kilquhanity's  heart.  It  looked 
peaceful  enough,  the  little  house  lying  there  in  the 
waste  of  snow,  banked  up  with  earth,  and  sheltered 
on  the  northwest  by  a  little  grove  of  pines.  At 
last  M.  Garon  rose,  and  lifting  himself  up  and  down 
on  his  toes  as  if  about  to  deliver  a  legal  opinion, 
he  coughed  slightly,  and  then  said  n  a  dry  little 
voice : 

"  Madame,  I  shall  have  pleasure  in  calling  on  your 
husband.  You  have  not  seen  the  matter  in  the  true 
light.     Madame,  I  bid  you  good-day  I  " 

That  night  the  Avocat,  true  to  his  promise,  callerl  on 
Sergeant  Kilquhanity.  Kilquhanity  was  alone  in  the 
house.  His  wife  had  gone  to  the  village  for  the  Little 
Chemist.  She  had  been  roused  at  last  to  the  serious 
nature  of  Kilquhanity's  illness. 

M.  Garon  knocked.  There  was  no  answer.  He 
knocked  again  more  loudly,  and  still  no  answer.  He 
opened  the  door  and  entered  into  a  clean,  warm  living 
room,  so  hot  that  the  heat  came  to  him  in  waves,  buffet- 
ing his  face.  Dining,  sitting,  and  drawing  room,  it 
was  also  a  sort  of  winter  kitchen ;  and  side  by  side  with 
relics  of  Kilquhanity's  soldier-life  were  clean,  bright 
tins,  black  saucepans,  strings  of  dried  fruit,  and  well- 
cured  hams.  Certainly  the  place  had  the  air  of  home; 
it  spoke  for  the  absent  termagant. 

M.  Garon  looked  round  and  saw  a  half-opened  door, 
through  which  presently  came  a  voice  speaking  in  a 
laboured  whisper.  The  Avocat  knocked  gently  at  the 
door.  "  May  I  come  in,  Sergeant? "  he  asked,  and 
entered.  There  was  no  light  in  the  room,  but  the  fire 
in  the  kitchen  stove  threw  a  glow  over  the  bed  where 


292   THE  LANE  THAT  HAD  NO  TURNING 

the  sick  man  lay.  The  big  hands  of  the  soldier  moved 
restlessly  on  the  quilt. 

"  Aw,  it's  the  koind  av  ye !  "  said  Kilquhanity,  with 
difficulty,  out  of  the  half  shadows. 

The  Avocat  took  one  burning  hand  in  both  of  his, 
held  it  for  a  moment,  and  pressed  it  two  or  three  times. 
He  did  not  know  what  to  say. 

"  We  must  have  a  light,"  said  he  at  last,  and  taking 
a  candle  from  the  shelf  he  lighted  it  at  the  stove  and 
came  into  the  bedroom  again.  This  time  he  was 
startled.  Even  in  this  short  illness,  Kilquhanity's  flesh 
had  dropped  away  from  him,  leaving  him  but  a  bundle 
of  bones,  on  which  the  skin  quivered  with  fever.  Every 
word  the  sick  man  tried  to  speak  cut  his  chest  like  a 
knife,  and  his  eyes  half  started  from  his  head  with  the 
agony  of  it.  The  Avocat's  heart  sank  within  him,  for 
he  saw  that  a  life  was  hanging  in  the  balance.  Not 
knowing  what  to  do,  he  tucked  in  the  bedclothes 
gently. 

"  I  do  be  thinkin',"  said  the  strained,  whispering 
voice — "  I  do  be  thinkin'  I  could  shmoke !  " 

The  Avocat  looked  round  the  room,  saw  the  pipe  on 
the  window,  and  cutting  some  tobacco  from  a  "  plug," 
he  tenderly  filled  the  old  black  corn-cob.  Then  he  put 
the  stem  in  Kilquhanity's  mouth  and  held  the  candle 
to  the  bowl.  Kilquhanity  smiled,  drew  a  long  breath, 
and  blew  out  a  cloud  of  thick  smoke.  For  a  moment 
he  puffed  vigorously,  then,  all  at  once,  the  pleasure  of 
it  seemed  to  die  away,  and  presently  the  bowl  dropped 
down  on  his  chin.  M.  Garon  lifted  it  away.  Kil- 
quhanity did  not  speak,  but  kept  saying  something  over 
and  over  again  to  himself,  looking  beyond  M.  Garon 
abstractedly. 

At  that  moment  the  front  door  of  the  house  opened. 


i  *ir<ijWi.  ■*«< 


ING 
moved 

ty,  with 

I  of  his, 
e  times. 

1  taking 
ove  and 
he  was 
y's  flesh 
I  bundle 
•.  Every 
St  Hke  a 
with  the 
him,  for 
:e.  Not 
:dclothes 

lispering 

;  pipe  on 
"  plug," 
in  he  put 
e  candle 
y  breath, 
moment 
easure  of 
dropped 
ly.     Kil- 
ling over 
Garon 

J  opened. 


THE   MAN   THAT   DIED   AT   ALMA    293 

and  presently  a  shrill  voice  came  through  the  door. 
"  Shmokin,'  shmokin',  are  yc,  Kilouhanity?     As  soon 

as  me  back's  turned,  it's  playin'  the  fool "     She 

stopped  short,  seeing  the  Avocat. 

"  Beggin'  yer  pardon,  Misther  Garon,"  she  said,  "  I 
thought  it  was  only  Kilqulianity  here,  an'  he  wid  no 
more  sense  than  a  babby." 

Kilquhanity's  eyes  closed,  and  he  buried  one  side  of 
his  head  in  the  pillow,  that  her  shrill  voice  should  not 
pierce  his  ears. 

"  The  Little  Chemist  '11  be  comin'  in  a  minit,  dear 
Misther  Garon,"  said  the  wife  presently,  and  she  began 
to  fuss  with  the  bedclothes  and  to  be  nervously  and 
uselessly  busy. 

"  Aw,  lave  thim  alone,  darlin',"  whispered  Kilquha- 
nity,  tossing.  Her  officiousness  seemed  to  hurt  him 
more  than  the  pain  in  his  chest. 

M.  Garon  did  not  wait  for  the  Little  Chemist  to  ar- 
rive, but  after  pressing  the  Sergeant's  hand  he  left  the 
house  and  went  straight  to  the  house  of  the  Cure,  and 
told  him  in  what  condition  was  the  black  sheep  of  his 
flock. 

When  M.  Garon  returned  to  his  own  home  he 
found  a  visitor  in  his  library.  It  was  a  woman,  and  be- 
tween forty  and  fifty  years  of  age,  who  rose  slowly  to 
her  feet  as  the  Avocat  entered,  and,  without  prelimi- 
nary, put  into  his  hands  a  document. 

"  That  is  who  I  am,"  she  said.  "  Mary  Muddock 
that  was,  Mary  Kilquhanity  that  is." 

The  Avocat  held  in  his  hands  the  marriage  lines  of 
Matthew  Kilquhanity  of  the  parish  of  Malahide  and 
Mary  Muddock  of  the  parish  of  St.  Giles,  London. 
The  Avocat  was  completely  taken  back.  He  blew  ner- 
vously through  his  pale  fingers,  raised  himself  up  and 


294   THE  LANE  THAT  HAD  NO  TURNING 

down  on  his  toes,  and  grew  pale  through  suppressed 
excitement.  He  examined  tlie  certificate  carefully, 
though  from  the  first  he  had  no  doubt  of  its  accuracy 
and  correctness. 

"  Well!  "  said  the  woman,  with  a  hard  look  in  her 
face  and  a  hard  note  in  her  voice.     "  Well!  " 

The  Avocat  looked  at  her  musingly  for  a  moment. 
All  at  once  there  had  been  unfolded  to  him  Kilquha- 
nity's  story.  In  his  younger  days  Kilquhanity  had 
married  this  woman  with  a  face  of  tin  and  a  heart  of 
leather.  It  needed  no  confession  from  Kilquhanity 's 
own  lips  to  explain  by  what  hard  paths  he  had  come 
to  the  reckless  hour  when,  at  Blackpool,  he  had  left  her 
for  ever,  as  he  thought.  In  the  flush  of  his  criminal 
freedom  he  had  married  again — with  the  woman  who 
shared  his  home  on  the  little  hillside,  behind  the  Parish 
Church,  she  believing  him  a  widower.  Mary  Mud- 
dock,  with  the  stupidity  of  her  class,  had  never  gone 
to  the  right  quarters  to  discover  his  whereabouts  until 
a  year  before  this  day  when  she  stood  in  the  Avo- 
cat's  library.  At  last,  through  the  War  Of^ce,  she 
had  found  the  whereabouts  of  her  missing  Matthew. 
She  had  gathered  her  little  savings  together,  and, 
after  due  preparation,  had  sailed  away  to  Canada  to 
find  the  soldier  boy  whom  she  had  never  given 
anything  but  bad  hours  in  all  the  days  of  his  life 
with  her. 

"  Well,"  said  the  woman,  "  you're  a  lawyer — have 
you  nothing  to  say?  You  pay  his  pension — next  time 
you'll  pay  k  *o  me.  I'll  teach  him  to  leave  me  and  my 
kid  and  go  oflf  with  an  Irish  cook!  " 

The  Avocat  looked  her  steadily  in  the  eyes,  and 
then  delivered  the  strongest  blow  that  was  possible 
from  the  opposite  side  of  the  case.     "  Madame,"  said 


ING 


THE   MAN   THAT    DIED   AT   ALMA    295 


pressed 
refully, 
xuracy 

in  her 

loment. 
;il([uha- 
ity  had 
heart  of 
hanity's 
id  come 
i  left  her 
criminal 
lan  who 
e  Parish 
•y  Mud- 
/er  gone 
uts  until 
he  Avo- 
Rfice,  she 
Matthew, 
ler,   and, 
anada  to 
2r    given 
his  life 

er — have 
lext  time 
e  and  my 

yes,  and 

possible 

■Tie,"  said 


he,  "  Madame,  I  regret  to  inform  you  that  Matthew 
Kilquhanity  is  dying." 

"Dying,  is  he?"  said  the  woman  with  a  sudden 
change  of  voice  and  manner,  hut  her  whine  did  not 
ring  true.  "  The  poor  darlin' !  and  only  that  Irish  hag 
to  care  for  him !  Has  he  made  a  will  ?  "  she  added 
eagerly. 

Kilquhanity  had  made  no  will,  and  the  little  house 
on  the  hillside,  and  all  that  he  had,  belonged  to  this 
woman  who  had  spoiled  the  first  part  of  his  life,  and 
had  come  now  to  spoil  the  last  part. 

An  hour  later  the  Avocat,  the  Cure,  and  the  two 
women  stood  in  the  chief  room  of  the  little  house  on 
the  hillside.  The  door  was  shut  between  the  two 
rooms,  and  the  Little  Chemist  was  with  Kilquhanity. 
The  Cure's  hand  was  on  the  arm  of  the  first  wife  and 
the  Avocat's  upon  the  arm  of  the  second.  The  two 
women  were  glaring  eye  to  eye,  having  just  finished 
as  fine  a  torrent  of  abuse  of  each  other  and  of  Kilquha- 
nity as  can  be  imagined.  Kilquhanity  himself,  with 
the  sorrow  of  death  upon  him,  though  he  knew  it  not, 
had  listened  to  the  brawl,  his  chickens  come  home  to 
roost  at  last.  The  first  Mrs.  Kilquhanity  had  sworn, 
with  an  oath  that  took  no  account  of  the  Cure's  pres- 
ence, that  not  a  stick  nor  a  stone  nor  a  rag  nor  a  penny 
should  that  Irish  slattern  have  of  Matthew  Kilquha- 
nity's  ! 

The  Cure  and  the  Avocat  had  quieted  them  at  last, 
and  the  Cure  spoke  sternly  now  to  both  women : 

"  In  the  presence  of  death,"  said  he,  "  have  done 
with  your  sinful  clatter.  Stop  quarrelling  over  a  dying 
man.  Let  him  go  in  peace!  Let  him  go  in  peace! 
If  I  hear  one  word  more,"  he  added  sternly,  "  I  will 


i 


296   THE  LANE  THAT  HAD  NO  TURNING 

turn  you  both  out  of  the  house  into  the  night.  I  will 
have  the  man  die  in  peace!  " 

Opening  the  door  of  the  bedroom,  the  Cure  went  in 
and  shut  the  door,  bolting  it  quietly  behind  him.  The 
Little  Chemist  sat  by  the  bedside,  and  Kilquhanity  lay 
as  still  as  a  babe  upon  the  bed.  His  eyes  were  half 
closed,  for  the  Little  Chemist  had  given  him  an  opiate 
to  quiet  the  terrible  pain. 

The  Cure  saw  that  the  end  was  near.  He  touched 
Kilquhanity's  arm.  "  My  son,"  said  he,  "  look  up. 
You  have  sinned,  you  must  confess  your  sins,  and 
repent." 

Kilquhanity  looked  up  at  him  with  dazed  but  half- 
smiling  eyes.  **  Are  they  gone?  Are  the  women 
gone? " 

The  Cure  nodded  his  head.  Kilquhanity's  eyes 
closed  and  opened  again.  *^  They're  gone,  thin !  Oh, 
the  foine  of  it !  the  foine  of  it !  "  he  whispered.  "  So 
quiet,  so  aisy,  so  quiet!  Faith,  I'll  just  be  shlaping! 
I'll  be  shlaping  now !  " 

His  eyes  closed,  but  the  Cure  touched  his  arm  again. 
"  My  son,"  said  he,  '*  look  up.  Do  vou  thoroughly 
and  earnestly  repent  you  of  your  sins?  " 

His  eyes  opened  again.  "  Yis,  father,  oh,  yis. 
There's  been  a  dale  o'  noise — there's  been  a  dale  o' 
noise  in  the  wurruld,  father,"  said  he.  "  Oh,  so  quiet, 
so  quiet  now !     I  do  be  shlaping !  " 

A  smile  crossed  his  face.  "  Oh,  the  foine  of  it !  I 
do  be  shlaping — shlaping." 

And  he  fell  into  a  noiseless  Sleep. 


WING 
it.     I  will 

e  went  in 
lim.  The 
lianity  lay 
were  half 
an  opiate 

e  touched 

'  look  up. 

sins,  and 

.  but  hali- 
le  women 

ity's   eyes 

hin!    Oh, 

red.     "So 

shlaping ! 

irm  again, 
horoughly 

,    oh,   yis. 

a  dale  o' 

1,  so  quiet, 

eofit!    I 


THE  BARON  OF  BEAUGARD 


^im> 


THE   BARON   OF   BEAUGARD 


THE  Manor  House  at  Beaugard,  monsieur?  Ah, 
certainlee,  I  mind  it  very  well.  It  was  the  first 
in  Quebec,  and  there  are  many  tales.  It  had  a  chapel 
and  a  gallows.  Its  baron,  he  had  the  power  of  life 
and  death,  and  the  right  of  the  seigneur— you  under- 
stand!— which  he  used  only  once;  and  then  what 
trouble  it  made  for  him  and  the  woman,  and  the  bar- 
ony, and  the  parish,  and  all  the  country !  " 

"  What  is  the  whole  story,  Larue  ?  "  said  Medallion, 
who  had  spent  months  in  the  seigneur's  company, 
stalking  game,  and  tales,  and  legends  of  the  St.  Law- 
rence. 

Larue  spoke  English  very  well — his  mother  was 
English. 

"  Mais,  I  do  not  know  for  sure ;  but  the  Abbe  Fron- 
tone,  he  and  I  were  snowed  up  together  in  that  same 
house  which  now  belongs  to  the  Church,  and  in  the 
big  fireplace,  where  we  sat  on  a  bench,  toasting  our 
knees  and  our  bacon,  he  told  me  the  tale  as  he  knew  it. 
He  was  a  great  scholar — there  is  none  greater.  He 
had  found  papers  in  the  wall  of  the  house,  and  from  the 
Gover'ment  chest  he  got  more.  Then  there  were  the 
tales  handed  down,  and  the  records  of  the  Church— for 
she  knows  the  true  story  of  every  man  that  has  come  to 
New  France  from  first  to  last.  So,  because  I  have  a 
taste  for  tales,  and  gave  him  some,  he  told  me  of  the 


300   THE  LANE  THAT  HAD  NO  TURNING 

Baron  of  Beaugard  and  that  time  he  took  the  right  of 
the  seigneur,  and  the  end  of  it  all. 

"  Of  course  it  was  a  hundred  and  fifty  years  ago, 
when  Bigot  was  Intendant — ah,  what  a  rascal  was  that 
Bigot,  robber  and  deceiver!  He  never  stood  by  a 
friend,  and  never  fought  fair  a  foe — so  the  Abbe  said. 
Well,  Beaugard  was  no  longer  young.  He  had  built 
the  Manor  House,  he  had  put  up  his  gallows,  he  had 
liis  vassals,  he  had  been  made  a  lord.  He  had  quar- 
relled with  Bigot,  and  had  conquered,  but  at  great 
cost ;  for  Bigot  had  such  power,  and  the  Governor  had 
trouble  enough  to  care  for  himself  against  Bigot, 
though  he  was  Beaugard's  friend. 

"  Well,  there  was  a  good  lump  of  a  fellow  who  had 
been  a  soldier,  and  he  picked  out  a  girl  in  the  Sei- 
gneury  of  Beaugard  to  make  his  wife.  It  is  said  the  girl 
herself  was  not  set  for  the  man,  for  she  was  of  finer 
stuff  than  the  peasants  about  her,  and  showed  it.  But 
her  father  and  mother  had  a  dozen  other  children,  and 
what  was  this  girl,  this  Falise,  to  do  ?  She  said  yes  to 
the  man,  the  time  was  fixed  for  the  marriage,  and  it 
came  along. 

"  So.  At  the  very  hour  of  the  wedding  Beaugard 
came  by,  for  the  church  was  in  mending,  and  he  had 
given  leave  it  should  be  in  his  own  chapel.  Well,  he 
rode  by  just  as  the  bride  was  coming  out  with  the  man 
— Garoche.  When  Beaugard  saw  Falise  he  gave  a 
whistle,  then  spoke  in  his  throat,  reined  up  his  horse, 
and  got  down.  He  fastened  his  eyes  on  the  girl's.  A 
strange  look  passed  between  them — he  had  never  seen 
her  before,  but  she  had  seen  him  often,  and  when  he 
was  gone  had  helped  the  housekeeper  with  his  rooms. 
She  had  carried  away  with  her  a  stray  glove  of  his. 
Of  course  it  sounds  droll,  and  they  said  of  her  when  all 


THE   BARON   OF   BEAUGARD 


came  out  that  it  was  wicked ;  but  evil  is  according  to  a 
man's  own  heart,  and  the  girl  had  hid  this  glove  as  she 
hid  whatever  was  in  her  soul — hid  it  even  from  the 
priest. 

"  Well,  the  Baron  looked  and  she  looked,  and  he 
took  off  his  hat,  stepped  forward,  and  kissed  her  on  the 
cheek.  She  turned  pale  as  a  ghost,  and  her  eyes  took 
the  colour  that  her  cheeks  lost.  When  he  stepped 
back  he  looked  close  at  the  husband.  *  What  is  your 
name?*  he  said.  *  Garoche,  m'sieu'  le  Baron,'  was  the 
reply.  *  Garoche !  Garoche ! '  he  said,  eyeing  him  up 
and  down.  '  You  have  been  a  soldier?  '  *  Yes,  m'sieu' 
le  Baron.'  '  You  have  served  with  me  ? '  *  Against 
you,  m'sieu'  le  Baron  .  .  .  when  Bigot  came 
lighting.'  '  Better  against  me  than  for  me,'  said  the 
Baron,  speaking  to  himself,  though  he  had  so  strong 
a  voice  that  what  he  said  could  be  heard  by  those 
near  him — that  is,  those  who  were  tall,  for  he  was 
six  and  a  half  feet,  with  legs  and  shoulders  like  a 
bull. 

"  He  stooped  and  stroked  the  head  of  his  hound  fot 
a  moment,  and  all  the  people  stood  and  watched  him, 
wondering  what  next.  At  last  he  said : '  And  what  part 
played  you  in  that  siege,  Garoche  ? '  Garoche  looked 
troubled,  but  answered :  '  It  was  in  the  way  of  duty, 
m'sieu'  le  Baron — I  with  five  others  captured  the  relief- 
party  sent  from  your  cousin  the  Seigneur  of  Vadrome.' 
*  Oh,'  said  the  Baron,  looking  sharp,  *  you  were  in  that, 
were  you?  Then  you  know  what  happened  to  the 
young  Marmette  ? '  Garoche  trembled  a  little,  but 
drew  himself  up  and  said :  *  M'sieu'  le  Baron,  he  tried 
to  kill  the  Intendant — there  was  no  other  way.'  *  What 
part  played  you  in  that,  Garoche  ? '  Some  trembled, 
for  they  knew  the  truth,  and  they  feared  the  mad  will 


302   THE  LANE  THAT  HAD  NO  TURNING 


of  the  Baron.  '  I  ordered  the  firing-party,  m'sieu'  le 
Baron,'  he  answered. 

"  The  Baron's  eyes  got  fierce  and  his  face  hardened, 
but  he  stooped  and  drew  the  ears  of  the  hound  through 
his  hand  softly.  '  Marmette  was  my  cousin's  son,  and 
had  hved  with  me,'  he  said.  '  A  brave  lad,  and  he  had 
a  nice  hatred  of  vileness — else  he  had  not  died.'  A 
strange  smile  played  on  his  lips  for  a  moment,  then  he 
looked  at  Falise  steadily.  Who  can  tell  what  was 
working  in  his  mind !  '  War  is  war,'  he  went  on,  '  and 
Bigot  was  your  master,  Garoche ;  but  the  man  pays  for 
his  master's  sins  this  way  or  that.  Yet  I  would  not 
have  it  different,  no,  not  a  jot.'  Then  he  turned  round 
to  the  crowd,  raised  his  hat  to  the  Cure,  who  stood  on 
the  chapel  steps,  once  more  looked  steadily  at  Falise, 
and  said :  *  You  shall  all  come  to  the  Manor  House, 
and  have  your  feastings  there,  and  we  will  drink  to  the 
home-coming  of  the  fairest  woman  in  my  barony.* 
With  that  he  turned  round,  bowed  to  Falise,  put  on 
his  hat,  caught  the  bridle  through  his  arm,  and  led 
his  horse  to  the  Manor  House. 

"  This  was  in  the  afternoon.  Of  course,  whether 
they  wished  or  not,  Garoche  and  Falise  could  not  re- 
fuse, and  the  people  were  glad  enough,  for  they  would 
have  a  free  hand  at  meat  and  wine,  the  Baron  being 
liberal  of  table.  And  it  was  as  they  guessed,  for  though 
the  time  was  so  short,  the  people  at  Beaugard  soon  had 
the  tables  heavy  with  food  and  drink.  It  was  just  at 
the  time  of  candle-lighting  the  Baron  came  in  and 
gave  a  toast.  *  To  the  dwellers  in  Eden  to-night,'  he 
said — '  Eden  against  the  time  of  the  Angel  and  the 
Sword.'  I  do  not  think  that  any  except  the  Cure 
and  the  woman  understood,  and  she,  maybe,  only  be- 
cause a  woman  feels  the  truth  about  a  thing,  even  when 


sIING 


THE   BARON    OF   BEAUGARD 


303 


I'sieu'  Ic 

ardened, 
through 
son,  and 
d  he  had 
iied.'     A 
;,  then  he 
vhat  was 
on, *  and 
1  pays  for 
vould  not 
led  round 
)  stood  on 
at  FaUse, 
or  House, 
■ink  to  the 
\f  barony.' 
se,  put  on 
and  led 

,  whether 
lid  not  re- 
|hcy  would 
iron  being 
|for  though 
soon  had 
as  just  at 
le  in  and 
night,'  he 
lei  and  the 
the  Cure 
|e,  only  be- 
even  when 


her  brain  does  not.  After  they  had  done  shouting  to 
his  toast,  he  said  a  go^  J-night  to  all,  and  they  began  to 
leave,  the  Cure  among  the  first  to  go,  with  a  troubled 
look  in  his  face. 

"  As  the  people  left,  the  Baron  said  to  Garoche  and 
Falise,  *  A  moment  with  me  before  you  go.'  The  wom- 
an started,  for  she  thought  of  one  thing,  and  Garoche 
started,  for  he  thought  of  another — the  siege  of  Beau- 
gard  and  the  killing  of  young  Marmette.  But  they 
followed  the  Baron  to  his  chamber.  Coming  in,  he 
shut  the  door  on  them.  Then  he  turned  to  Garoche. 
*You  will  accept  the  roof  and  bed  of  Beaugard  to- 
night, my  man,'  he  said,  '  and  come  to  me  here  at  nine 
to-morrow  morning.'  Garoche  stared  hard  for  an  in- 
stant. *  Stay  here ! '  said  Garoche, '  Falise  and  me  stay 
here  in  the  manor,  m'sieu'  le  Baron!'  'Here,  even 
here,  Garoche ;  so  good-night  to  you,'  said  the  Baron. 
Garoche  turned  towards  the  girl.  '  Then  come,  Falise,' 
he  said,  and  reached  out  his  hand.  '  Your  room  shall 
be  shown  you  at  once,'  the  Baron  added  softly,  *  the 
lady's  at  her  pleasure.' 

"  Then  a  cry  burst  from  Garoche,  and  he  sprang 
forward,  but  the  Baron  waved  him  back.  *  Stand  ofT,' 
he  said,  *  and  let  the  lady  choose  between  us.'  *  She  is 
my  wife,'  said  Garoche.  *  I  am  your  Seigneur,'  said  the 
other.  *  And  there  is  more  than  that,'  he  went  on ; 
*  for  damn  me,  she  is  too  fine  stufif  for  you,  and  the 
Church  shall  untie  what  she  has  tied  to-day ! '  At  that 
Falise  fainted,  and  the  Baron  caught  her  as  she  fell. 
He  laid  her  on  a  couch,  keeping  an  eye  on  Garoche  the 
while.  *  Loose  her  gown,'  he  said,  *  while  I  get 
brandy.'  Then  he  turned  to  a  cupboard,  poured 
liquor,  and  came  over.  Garoche  had  her  dress  open 
at  the  neck  and  bosom,  and  was  staring  at  something 


304   THE  LANE  THAT  HAD  NO  TURNING 

on  her  breast.  The  Baron  saw  also,  stooped  with  a 
strange  sound  in  his  throat,  and  picked  it  up.  *  My 
glove ! '  he  said.  '  And  on  her  wedding-day ! '  He 
pointed.  *  There  on  the  table  is  its  mate,  fished  this 
morning  from  my  hunting  coat — a  pair  the  Governor 
gave  me.     You  see,  man,  you  see  her  choice.' 

"  At  that  he  stooped  and  put  some  brandy  to  her 
lips.  Garoche  drew  back  sick  and  numb,  and  did  noth- 
ing, only  stared.  Falise  came  to  herself  soon,  and 
when  she  felt  her  dress  open,  gave  a  cry.  Garoche 
could  have  killed  her  then,  when  he  saw  her  shudder 
from  him,  as  if  afraid,  over  towards  the  Baron,  who 
held  the  glove  in  his  hand,  and  said :  *  See,  Garoche, 
you  had  better  go.  In  the  next  room  they  will  tell  you 
where  to  sleep.  To-morrow,  as  I  said,  you  will  meet 
me  here.  We  shall  have  things  to  say,  you  and  I.*  Ah, 
that  Baron,  he  had  a  queer  mind,  but  in  truth  he  loved 
the  woman,  as  you  shall  see. 

"  Garoche  got  up  without  a  word,  went  to  the  door 
and  opened  it,  the  eyes  of  the  Baron  and  the  woman 
following  him,  for  there  was  a  devil  in  his  eye.  In  the 
other  room  there  were  men  waiting,  and  he  was  taken 
to  a  chamber  and  locked  in.  You  can  guess  what  that 
night  must  have  been  to  him ! 

"What  was  it  to  the  Baron  and  Falise?  "  asked  Me- 
dallion. 

"  M'sieu',  what  do  you  think  ?  Beaugard  had  never 
had  an  eye  for  women;  loving  his  hounds,  fighting, 
quarrelling,  doing  wild,  strong  things.  So,  all  at  once, 
he  was  face  to  face  with  a  woman  who  has  the  look 
of  love  in  her  face,  who  was  young,  and  fine  of  body, 
so  the  Abbe  said,  and  was  walking  to  marriage,  at  her 
father's  will  and  against  her  own,  carrying  the  Baron's 
glove  in  her  bosom.    What  should  Beaugard  do?, 


ING 


THE   BARON   OF   BEAUGARD 


305 


with  a 
.    'My 

!'  He 
led  this 
overnor 

\f  to  her 
[id  noth- 
»on,  and 
Garoche 

shudder 
•on,  who 
Garoche, 
1  tell  you 
will  meet 
dl/    Ah, 

he  loved 

the  door 
woman 
In  the 
N2iS  taken 
what  that 

Lsked  Me- 

had  never 

fighting, 
11  at  once, 

the  look 
of  body, 

ge,  at  her 
le  Baron's 

gard  do?, 


But  no,  ah,  no,  m'sieu*,  not  as  you  think,  not  quite. 
Wild,  with  the  bit  in  his  teeth,  yes ;  but  at  heart — well, 
here  was  the  one  woman  for  him.  He  knew  it  all  in  a 
minute,  and  he  would  have  her  once  and  for  all,  and 
till  death  should  come  their  way.  And  so  he  said  to 
her,  as  he  raised  her,  she  drawing  back  afraid,  her  heart 
hungering  for  him,  yet  fear  in  her  eyes,  and  her  fingers 
trembling  as  she  softly  pushed  him  from  her.  You 
see,  she  did  not  know  quite  what  was  in  his  heart.  She 
was  the  daughter  of  a  tenant  vassal,  who  had  lived  in 
the  family  of  a  grand  seigneur  in  her  youth,  the  friend 
of  his  child — that  was  all,  and  that  was  where  she  got 
her  manners  and  her  mind. 

"  She  got  on  her  feet  and  said :  *  M'sieu'  le  Baron, 
you  will  let  me  go — to  my  husband.  I  cannot  stay 
here.  Oh,  you  are  great,  you  arc  noble,  you  would  not 
make  me  sorry,  make  me  to  hate  myself — and  you.  I 
have  only  one  thing  in  the  world  of  any  price — you 
would  not  steal  my  happiness?'  He  looked  at  her 
steadily  in  the  eyes,  and  said : '  Will  it  make  you  happy 
to  go  to  Garoche  ?  '  She  raised  her  hands  and  wrung 
them.  '  God  knows,  God  knows,  I  am  his  wife,'  she 
said  helplessly,  *  and  he  loves  me.'  *  And  God  knows, 
God  knows,'  said  the  Baron,  *  it  is  all  a  question  of 
whether  one  shall  feed  and  two  go  hungry,  or  two 
gather  and  one  have  the  stubble.  Shall  not  he  stand 
in  the  stubble  ?  What  has  he  done  to  merit  you  ?  What 
would  he  do?  You  are  for  the  master,  not  the  man; 
for  love,  not  the  feeding  on ;  for  the  manor  house  and 
the  hunt,  not  the  cottage  and  the  loom.' 

"  She  broke  into  tears,  her  heart  thumping  in  her 
throat.  '  I  am  for  what  the  Church  did  for  me  this 
day,'  she  said.  '  Oh,  sir,  I  pray  you,  forgive  me  and  let 
me  go.    Do  not  punish  me,  but  forgive  me — and  let  me 


20 


"<»• 


3o6   THE  LANE  THAT  HAD  NO  TURNING 

go.  I  was  wicked  to  wear  your  glove — wicked,  wicked.* 
*  But  no,'  was  his  reply,  '  1  shall  not  forgive  you  so 
good  a  deed,  and  you  shall  not  go.  And  what  the 
Church  did  for  you  this  day  she  shall  undo — by  all  the 
saints,  she  shall !  You  came  sailing  into  my  heart  this 
hour  past  on  a  strong  wind,  and  you  shall  not  slide  out 
on  an  ebb-tide.  I  have  you  here,  as  your  Seigneur, 
but  I  have  you  here  as  a  man  who  will * 

"  He  sat  down  by  her  at  that  point,  and  whispered 
softly  in  her  car :  at  which  she  gave  a  cry  which  had 
both  gladness  and  pain.  *  Surely,  even  that,*  he  said, 
catching  her  to  his  breast.  *  And  the  Baron  of  Beau- 
gard  never  broke  his  word,*  What  should  be  her  re- 
ply ?  Docs  not  a  woman  when  she  truly  loves,  always 
believe?  That  is  the  great  sign.  She  slid  to  her  knees 
and  dropped  her  head  into  the  hollow  of  his  arm.  '  I 
do  not  understand  these  things,'  she  said,  '  but  I  know 
that  the  other  was  death,  and  this  is  life.  And  yet  I 
know,  too,  for  my  heart  says  so,  that  the  end — the  end, 
will  be  death.' 

"  '  Tut,  tut,  my  flower,  my  wild-rose,'  he  said.  *  Of 
course  the  end  of  all  is  death,  l^ut  we  will  go  a-Maying 
first,  come  October  and  let  the  world  break  over  us 
when  it  must.  We  are  for  Maying  now,  my  rose  of  all 
the  world ! '  It  was  as  if  he  meant  more  than  he  said, 
as  if  he  saw  what  would  come  in  that  October  which  all 
New  France  never  forgot,  when,  as  he  said,  the  world 
broke  over  them. 

"  The  next  morning  the  Baron  called  Garoche  to 
him.  The  man  was  like  some  mad  buck  harried  by 
the  hounds,  and  he  gnashed  his  teeth  behind  his  shut 
lips.  The  Baron  eyed  him  curiously,  yet  kindly,  too, 
as  well  he  might,  for  when  was  ever  man  to  hear 
such  a  speech  as  came  to  Garoche  the  morning  after 


ING 


THE   BARON    OF    BEAUGARD 


307 


vicked.' 
you  so 
hat  the 
y  all  the 
part  this 
slide  out 
cigneur, 

hispcred 
hich  had 
he  said, 
of  Bcau- 
e  her  re- 
s,  always 
licr  knees 
arm.     *  I 
It  I  know 
Vnd  yet  I 
-the  end, 

aid.  'Of 
a-Maying 
k  over  us 
•ose  of  all 
In  he  said, 
which  all 
Ithe  world 

laroche  to 
larried  by 
his  shut 
[ndly,  too, 
to  hear 
ling  after 


his  marriage.  *  Garoche,'  the  Baron  said,  having 
waved  his  men  away,  '  as  you  see,  the  lady  made  her 
choice — and  for  ever.  You  and  she  have  said  your 
last  farewell  in  this  world — for  the  w'fe  of  the  Baron  of 
Bcaugard  can  have  nothing  to  say  to  Garoche  the 
soldier.'  At  that  Garoche  snarled  out,  '  The  luifc  of 
the  Baron  of  Beaugard !  That  is  a  lie  to  shame  all 
hell.'  The  Baron  wound  the  lash  of  a  riding-whip 
round  and  round  his  fingers  quietly,  and  said :  '  It  is 
no  lie,  my  man,  but  the  truth.'  Garoche  eyed  him 
savagely,  and  growled :  *  The  Church  made  her  my  wife 
yesterday.  And  you ! — you ! — you ! — ah,  you  who  had 
all — you  with  your  money  and  place,  which  could  get 
all  easy,  you  take  the  one  thing  I  have.  You,  the 
grand  seigneur,  are  only  a  common  robber !  Ah,  Jesu 
— if  you  would  but  fight  me ! ' 

"  The  Baron,  very  calm,  said,  *  First,  Garoche,  the 
lady  was  only  your  wife  by  a  form  which  the  Church 
shall  set  aside — it  could  never  have  been  a  true  mar- 
riage. Second,  it  is  no  stealing  to  take  from  you  what 
you  did  not  have.  I  took  what  was  mine — remember 
the  glove !  For  the  rest — to  fight  you  ?  No,  my 
churl,  you  know  that's  impossible.  You  may  shoot 
me  from  behind  a  tree  or  a  rock,  but  swording  with 
you? — Come,  come,  a  pretty  gossip  for  the  Court! 
Then,  why  wish  a  fight?  Where  would  you  be,  as 
you  stood  before  me — you!  The  Baron  stretched 
himself  up,  and  smiled  down  at  Garoche.  *  You  have 
your  life,  man ;  take  it  and  go — to  the  farthest  corner  of 
New  France,  and  show  not  your  face  here  again.  If 
I  find  you  ever  again  in  Beaugard,  I  will  have  you 
whipped  from  parish  to  parish.  Here  is  money  for 
you — good  gold  coins.     Take  them,  and  go.' 

"  Garoche  got  still  and  cold  as  stone.     He  said  in  a 


3o8   THE  LANE  THAT  HAD  NO  TURNING 


low,  harsh  voice,  *  M'sieu'  le  Baron,  you  are  a  common 
thief,  a  wolf,  a  snui\e.  Such  men  as  you  come  lower 
than  Judas.  As  God  has  an  eye  to  see,  you  shall  pay 
all  one  day.  I  do  not  fear  you  nor  your  men  nor  your 
gallows.  You  are  a  jackal,  and  the  woman  has  a  filthy 
heart — a  ditch  of  shame.' 

"  The  Baron  drew  up  his  arm  like  lightning,  and  the 
lash  of  his  whip  came  singing  across  Garoche's  pale 
face.  Where  it  passed,  a  red  welt  rose,  but  the  man 
never  stirred.  The  arm  came  up  again,  but  a  voice 
behind  the  Baron  said, '  Ah,  no,  no,  not  again ! '  There 
stood  Falise.  Both  men  looked  at  her.  '  I  have  heard 
Garochc,'  she  said.  *  He  docs  not  judge  me  right. 
My  heart  is  no  filthy  ditch  of  shame.  But  it  was  break- 
ing when  I  came  from  the  altar  with  him  yesterday. 
Yet  I  would  have  been  a  true  wife  to  him  after  all.  A 
ditch  of  shame — ah,  Garoche — Garoche  !  And  you  said 
you  loved  me,  and  that  nothing  could  change  you !  " 

"  The  Baron  said  to  her :  *  Why  have  you  come, 
Falise  ?  I  forbade  you.'  *  Oh,  my  lord,'  she  answered, 
*  I  feared — for  you  both.  When  men  go  mad  because 
of  women  a  devil  enters  into  them.'  The  Baron, 
taking  her  by  the  hand,  said,  *  Permit  me,'  and  he 
led  her  to  the  door  for  her  to  pass  out.  She  looked 
back  sadly  at  Garoche,  standing  for  a  minute  very 
still.  Then  Garoche  said,  '  I  command  you,  come 
with  me;  you  are  my  wife.'  She  did  not  reply,  but 
shook  her  head  at  him.  Then  he  spoke  out  high  and 
fierce :  '  May  no  child  be  born  to  you.  May  a  curse 
fall  on  you.  May  your  field  be  barren,  and  your 
horses  and  cattle  die.  May  you  never  see  nor  hear 
good  things.  May  the  waters  leave  their  courses  to 
drown  you,  and  the  hills  their  bases  to  bury  you,  and 
no  hand  lay  you  in  decent  graves ! ' 


^ING 


THE   BARON    OF    BEAUGARD 


309 


:ommon 
ic  lower 
hall  pay 
nor  your 
s  a  filthy 

, and  the 
he's  pale 
the  man 
t  a  voice 
!'    There 
ive  heard 
Tie  right, 
'as  break- 
/esterday. 
:cr  all.    A 
1  you  said 
ge  you ! " 
ou  come, 
answered, 
d  because 
10   Baron, 
and  he 
he  looked 
nute  very 
^ou,  come 
reply,  but 
:  high  and 
ly  a  curse 
and  your 
nor  hear 
courses  to 
yT  you,  and 


**  The  woman  put  her  hands  to  her  cars  and  gave  a 
little  cry,  and  the  JLiaron  pushed  her  gently  un,  and 
closed  the  door  after  her.  Then  he  turned  on  Garoche. 
*  Have  you  said  all  you  wish  ? '  he  asked.  *  For,  if  not, 
say  on,  and  then  go ;  and  go  so  far  you  cannot  see  the 
sky  that  covers  Bcaugard.  We  are  even  now — we  can 
cry  quits.  But  that  I  have  a  little  injured  you,  you 
should  be  done  for  instantly.  But  hear  me :  if  I  ever 
see  you  again,  my  gallows  shall  end  you  straight. 
Your  tongue  has  been  gross  before  the  mistress  of  this 
m.anor ;  I  will  have  it  torn  out  if  it  so  much  as  syllables 
her  name  to  me  or  to  the  world  again.  She  is  dead  to 
you.     Go,  and  go  for  ever ! ' 

"  He  put  a  bag  of  money  on  the  table,  but  Garoche 
turned  away  from  it,  and  without  a  word  left  the  room, 
and  the  house,  and  the  parish,  and  said  nothing  to  any 
man  of  the  evil  that  had  come  to  him. 

"  But  what  talk  was  there,  and  what  dreadful  things 
were  said  at  first ! — that  Garoche  had  sold  his  wife  to 
the  Baron ;  that  he  had  been  killed  and  his  wife  taken ; 
that  the  Baron  kept  him  a  prisoner  in  a  cellar  under  the 
Manor  House.  And  all  the  time  there  was  Falise  with 
the  Baron — very  quiet  and  sweet  and  fine  to  see,  and 
going  to  Chapel  every  day,  and  to  Mass  on  Sundays — 
which  no  one  could  understand,  any  more  than  they 
could  see  why  she  should  be  called  the  Baroness  of 
Beaugard ;  for  had  they  all  not  seen  her  married  to 
Garoche  ?  And  there  were  many  people  who  thought 
her  vile.  Yet  truly,  at  heart,  she  was  not  so — not  at 
all.  Then  it  was  said  that  there  was  to  be  a  new  mar- 
riage ;  that  the  Church  would  let  it  be  so,  doing  and  un- 
doing, and  doing  again.  But  the  weeks  and  the  months 
went  by,  and  it  was  never  done.  For,  powerful  as  the 
Baron  was,  Bigot,  the  Intendant,  was  powerful  also, 


3IO   THE  LANE  THAT  HAD  NO  TURNING 

and  fought  the  thing  with  all  his  might.  The  Baron 
went  to  Quebec  to  see  the  Bishop  and  the  Governor, 
and  though  promises  were  made,  nothing  was  done. 
It  must  go  to  the  King  and  then  to  the  Pope,  and  from 
the  Pope  to  the  King  again,  and  so  on.  And  the 
months  and  the  years  went  by  as  they  waited,  and  with 
them  came  no  child  to  the  Manor  House  of  Beangard. 
That  was  the  only  sad  thing — that  and  the  waiting,  so 
far  as  man  could  see.  For  never  were  man  and  woman 
truer  to  each  other  than  these,  and  never  was  a  lady  of 
the  manor  kinder  to  the  poor,  or  a  lord  freer  of  hand  to 
his  vassals.  He  would  bluster  sometimes,  and  string  a 
peasant  up  by  the  heels,  but  his  gallows  was  never  used, 
and,  what  was  much  in  the  minds  of  the  people,  the 
Cure  did  not  refuse  the  woman  the  Sacrament. 

"  At  last  the  Baron,  fierce  because  he  knew  that 
Bigot  was  the  cause  of  the  great  delay,  so  that  he  might 
not  call  Falise  his  wife,  seized  a  transport  on  the  river, 
which  had  been  sent  to  brutally  levy  upon  a  poor 
gentleman,  and  when  Bigot's  men  resisted,  shot  them 
down.  Then  Bigot  sent  against  Beaugard  a  company 
of  artillery  and  some  soldiers  of  the  line.  The  guns 
were  placed  on  a  hill  looking  down  on  the  Manor 
House  across  the  little  river.  In  the  evening  the  can- 
nons arrived,  and  in  the  morning  the  fight  was  to 
begin.  The  guns  were  loaded  and  everything  was 
ready.  At  the  Manor  all  was  making  ready  also,  and 
the  Baron  had  no  fear, 

"  But  Falise's  heart  was  heavy,  she  knew  not  why. 
*  Eugene,'  she  said,  *  if  anything  should  happen ! ' 
'  Nonsense,  my  Falise,'  he  answered ;  *  what  should 
happen  ?  '  '  If — if  you  were  taken — were  killed ! '  she 
said.  '  Nonsense,  my  rose,'  he  said  again,  *  I  shall  not 
be  killed.    But  if  I  were,  you  should  be  at  peace  here.* 


an 
bc} 


IING 


THE   BARON   OF   BEAUGARD        311 


I  Baron 
5vernor, 
IS  (lone, 
.nd  from 
\nd  the 
and  with 
eaugard. 
liting,  so 
d  woman 
a  lady  of 
»f  hand  to 
d  string  a 
2ver  used, 
eople,  the 

It. 

Knew  that 
t  he  might 
I  the  river, 
)n  a  poor 
shot  them 
company 
The  guns 
fhe  Manor 
^g  the  can- 
rht  was  to 
[thing  was 
also,  and 

not  why. 

happen ! * 
|hat  should 
dlledP  she 

I  shall  not 
)eace  here.' 


'  Ah,  no,  no ! '  said  she.  *  Never.  Life  to  me  is  only 
possible  with  you.  I  have  had  nothing  but  you — none 
of  those  things  which  give  peace  to  other  women — 
none.  But  I  have  been  happy — oh,  yes,  very  happy. 
And,  God  forgive  me !  Eugene,  I  cannot  regret,  and  I 
never  have.  But  it  has  been  always  and  always  my 
prayer  that,  when  you  die,  I  may  die  with  you — at 
the  same  moment.  For  I  cannot  live  without  you, 
and,  besides,  I  would  like  to  go  to  the  good  God 
with  you  to  speak  for  us  both ;  for  oh,  I  loved  you,  I 
lovd  you,  and  I  love  you  still,  my  husband,  my 
adored ! * 

"  He  stooped — he  was  so  big,  and  she  but  of  middle 
height — kissed  her,  and  said,  '  S?c,  my  Falise,  I  am 
of  the  same  mind.  We  have  been  happy  in  life,  and 
we  could  well  be  happy  in  death  together.'  So  they 
sat  long,  long  into  the  night  and  talked  to  each  other 
— of  the  days  they  had  passed  together,  of  cheerful 
things,  she  trying  to  comfort  herself,  and  he  trying  to 
bring  smiles  to  her  lip: .  At  last  they  said  good-night, 
and  he  lay  down  in  his  clothes ;  and  after  a  few  mo- 
ments she  was  sleeping  like  a  child.  But  he  could 
not  sleep,  for  he  lay  thinking  of  her  and  of  her  life — 
how  she  had  come  from  humble  things  and  fitted  in 
with  the  highest.  At  last,  at  break  of  day,  he  arose 
and  went  outside.  He  looked  up  at  the  hill  where 
Bigot's  two  guns  were.  Men  were  already  stirring 
there.  One  man  was  standing  beside  the  gun,  and 
another  not  far  behind.  Of  course  the  Baron  could 
not  know  that  the  man  behind  the  gunner  said :  *  Yes, 
you  may  open  the  dance  with  an  early  salute  '  ;  and  he 
smiled  up  boldly  at  the  hill  and  went  into  the  house, 
and  stole  to  the  bed  of  his  wife  to  kiss  her  before  he 
began  the  day'f,  fighting.     He  looked  at  her  a  moment. 


312   THE  LANE  THAT  HAD  NO  TURNING 


standing  over  her,  and  then  stooped  and  softly  put 
his  lips  to  hers. 

"  At  that  moment  the  gunner  up  on  the  hill  used 
the  match,  and  an  awful  thing  happened.  With  the 
loud  roar  the  whole  hillside  of  rock  and  gravel  and 
sand  split  down,  not  ten  feet  in  front  of  the  gun,  moved 
with  horrible  swiftness  upon  the  river,  filled  its  bed, 
turned  it  from  its  course,  and,  sweeping  on,  swal- 
lowed the  Manor  House  of  Beaugard.  There  had 
been  a  crack  in  the  hill,  the  water  of  the  river  had 
sapped  its  foundations,  and  it  needed  only  this  shock 
to  send  it  down. 

"  And  so,  as  the  woman  wished :  the  same  hour  for 
herself  and  the  man !  And  when  at  last  their  prison 
was  opened  by  the  hands  of  Bigot's  men,  they  were 
found  cheek  by  cheek,  bourd  in  the  sacred  marriage 
of  death. 

"  But  another  had  gone  the  same  road,  for,  at  the 
awful  moment,  beside  the  bursted  gun,  the  dying  gun- 
ner, Garoche,  lifted  up  his  head,  saw  the  loose  travel- 
ling hill,  and  said  with  his  last  breath :     *  The  waters 

drown  them,  and  the  hills  bury  them,  and '     He 

had  his  way  with  them,  and  after  that  perhaps  the 
great  God  had  His  way  with  him — ^perhaps." 


NING 
oftly  put 

hill  used 
With  the 
ravel  and 
in,  moved 
d  its  bed, 
on,  swal- 
'here  had 
river  had 
;his  shock 


z  hour  for 
leir  prison 
they  were 
I  marriage 


PARABLES    OF   A    PROVINCE 


for,  at  the 
lying  gun- 
ose  travel- 
rhe  waters 

'    He 

erhaps  the 


>» 


r 
I 
i 

s 


I  .i 


THE   GOLDEN   PIPES 


THEY  hung  all  bronzed  and  shining,  on  the  side 
of  Margath  Mountain — the  tall  and  perfect 
pipes  of  the  organ  which  was  played  by  some  son  of 
God  when  the  world  was  young.  At  least  Hepnon 
the  cripple  said  this  was  so,  when  he  was  but  a  child, 
and  when  he  got  older  he  said  that  even  now  a  golden 
music  came  from  the  pipes  at  sunrise  and  sunset.  And 
no  one  laughed  at  Hepnon,  for  you  could  not  look 
into  the  dark  warm  eyes,  dilating  with  his  fancies,  nor 
see  the  transparent  temper  of  his  face,  the  look  of  the 
dreamer  over  all,  without  believing  him,  and  reproving 
your  own  judgment.  You  felt  that  he  had  travelled 
ways  you  could  never  travel,  that  he  had  had  dreams 
beyond  you,  that  his  fanciful  spirit  had  had  adventures 
you  would  give  years  of  your  dull  life  to  know. 

And  yet  he  was  not  made  only  as  women  are  made, 
fragile  and  trembling  in  his  nerves.  For  he  was  strong 
of  arm,  and  there  was  no  place  in  the  hills  to  be  climbed 
by  venturesome  man,  which  he  could  not  climb  with 
cnitch  and  shrivelled  leg.  And  he  was  a  gallant  horse- 
man, riding  with  his  knees  and  one  foot  in  stirrup, 
his  crutch  slung  behind  him.  It  may  be  that  was  why 
rough  men  listened  to  his  fancies  about  the  Golden 
Pipes.  Indeed  they  would  go  out  at  sunrise  and  look 
across  to  where  the  pipes  hung,  taking  the  rosy  glory 
of  the  morning,  and  steal  awdy  alone  at  sunset,  and  in 
some  lonely  spot  lean  out  towards  the  flaming  instru- 


3i6    THE  LANE  THAT  HAD  NO  TURNING 


mcnt  to  hear  if  any  music  rose  from  them.  The  legend 
tliat  one  of  the  Mighty  Men  of  the  Kimash  Hills  came 
here  to  play,  with  invisible  hands,  the  music  of  the 
first  years  of  the  world,  became  a  truth,  though  a  truth 
that  none  could  prove.  And  by-and-by,  no  man  ever 
travelled  the  valley  without  taking  off  his  hat  as  he 
passed  the  Golden  Pipes — so  had  a  cripple  with  his 
whimsies  worked  upon  the  land. 

Then  too  perhaps  his  music  had  to  do  with  it.  As 
a  child  he  had  only  a  poor  concertina,  but  by  it  he  drew 
the  traveller  and  the  mountaineer  and  the  worker  in 
the  valley  to  him  like  a  magnet.  Some  touch  of  the 
mysterious,  some  sweet  fantastical  melody  in  all  he 
played,  charmed  them,  even  when  he  gave  them  old 
familiar  airs.  From  the  concertina  he  passed  to  the 
violin,  and  his  skill  and  mastery  over  his  followers 
grew ;  and  then  there  came  a  notable  day  when  up  over 
a  thousand  miles  of  country  a  melodeon  was  brought 
him.  Then  a  wanderer,  a  minstrel  outcast  from 
a  far  country,  taking  refuge  in  those  hills,  taught 
him,  and  there  was  one  long  year  of  loving  labour 
together,  and  merry  whisperings  between  the  two, 
and  secret  drawings,  and  worship  of  the  Goldei, 
Pipes;  and  then  the  minstrel  died,  and  left  Hepnon 
alone. 

And  now  they  said  that  Hepnon  tried  to  coax  out 
of  the  old  melodeon  the  music  of  the  Golden  Pipes. 
But  a  look  of  sorrow  grew  upon  his  face,  and  stayed 
for  many  months.  Then  there  came  a  change,  and  he 
went  into  the  woods,  and  began  working  there  in  the 
perfect  summer  weather,  and  the  tale  went  abroad  that 
he  V  IS  building  an  organ,  so  that  he  might  play  for  all 
who  came,  the  music  he  heard  on  the  Golden  Pipes — 
for  they  had  ravished  his  ear  since  childhood,  and  now 


ING 


THE   GOLDEN    PIPES 


317 


legend 
Is  came 
of  the 
a  truth 
an  ever 
,t  as  he 
vith  his 

it.     As 
he  drew 
)rker  in 
[\  of  the 
1  all  he 
lem  old 
i  to  the 
allowers 
up  over 
brought 
st    from 
taught 
labour 
he  two, 
Goldei, 
Hepnon 

;oax  out 
n  Pipes, 
d  stayed 

and  he 
re  in  the 
•oad  that 
ly  for  all 

Pipes — 
and  now 


he  must  know  the  wonderful  melodies  all  by  heart,  they 
said. 

With  consummate  patience  Hepnon  dried  the  wood 
and  fashioned  it  into  long  tuneful  tubes,  beating  out 
soft  metal  got  from  the  forge  in  the  valley  to  case  the 
lips  of  them,  taiming  the  leather  for  the  bellows, 
stretching  it,  and  exposing  all  his  work  to  the  sun  of 
early  morning,  which  gave  every  fibre  and  valve  a  rich 
sweetness,  like  a  sound  fruit  of  autumn.  People  also 
■said  that  he  set  all  the  pieces  out  at  sunrise  and  sunset 
that  the  tone  of  the  Golden  Pipes  might  pass  into 
them,  so  that  when  the  organ  was  built,  each  part 
should  be  saturated  witli  such  melody  as  it  had  drawn 
in,  according  to  its  temper  and  its  fibre. 

So  the  building  of  the  organ  went  on,  and  a  year 
passed,  and  then  another,  and  it  was  summer  again, 
and  soon  Hepnon  began  to  build  also — while  yet  it 
was  sweet  weather — a  home  for  his  organ,  a  tall  nest 
of  cedar  added  to  his  father's  house.  And  in  it  every 
piece  of  wood,  and  every  board  had  been  made  ready 
by  his  own  hands,  and  set  in  the  sun  and  dried  slowly 
to  a  healthy  soundness ;  and  he  used  no  nails  of  metal, 
but  wooden  pins  of  the  ironwood  or  hickory  tree,  and 
it  was  all  polished,  and  there  was  no  paint  or  varnish 
anywhere,  and  when  you  spoke  in  this  nest  your  voice 
sounded  pure  and  strong. 

At  last  the  time  came  when,  piece  by  piece,  the 
organ  was  set  up  in  its  home;  and  as  the  days  and 
v/eeks  went  by,  and  autumn  drew  to  winter,  and  the 
music  of  the  Golden  Pipes  stole  down  the  flumes  of 
snow  to  their  ardent  lover,  and  spring  came  with  its 
sap,  and  small  purple  blossoms,  and  yellow  apples  of 
mandrake,  and  summer  stole  on  luxurious  and  dry, 
the  face  of  Hepnon  became  thinner  and  thinner,  a 


3i8    THE  LANE  THAT  HAD  NO  TURNING 

strange  deep  light  shone  in  his  eyes,  and  all  his  person 
seemed  to  exhale  a  kind  of  glow.  He  ceased  to  ride, 
to  climb,  to  lift  weights  with  his  strong  arms  as  he 
had — poor  cripple — been  once  so  proud  to  do.  A 
delicacy  came  upon  him,  and  more  and  more  he  with- 
drew himself  to  his  organ,  and  to  those  lofty  and 
lonely  places  where  he  could  see — and  hear — the 
Golden  Pipes  boom  softly  over  the  valley. 

At  last  it  all  was  done,  even  to  the  fine-carved  stool 
of  cedar  whereon  he  should  sit  when  he  played  his 
organ.  Never  yet  had  he  done  more  than  sound  each 
note  as  he  made  it,  trying  it,  softening  it  by  tender 
devices  with  the  wood ;  but  now  the  hour  was  come 
when  he  should  gather  down  the  soul  of  the  Golden 
Pipes  to  his  fingers,  and  give  to  the  ears  of  the  world 
the  song  of  the  morning  stars,  the  music  of  Jubal  and 
his  comrades,  the  affluent  melody  to  which  the  sons  of 
men,  in  the  first  days,  paced  the  world  in  time  with  the 
thoughts  of  God.  For  days  he  lived  alone  in  the 
cedar-house, — and  who  may  know  what  he  was  doing : 
dreaming,  listening,  or  praying?  Then  the  word 
went  through  the  valley  and  the  hills,  that  one  evening 
he  would  play  for  all  who  came; — and  that  day  was 
**  Toussaint  "  or  the  Feast  of  All  Souls. 

So  they  came  both  old  and  young,  and  they  did  not 
enter  the  house,  but  waited  outside,  upon  the  mossy 
rocks,  or  sat  among  the  trees,  and  watched  the  heavy 
sun  roll  down  and  the  Golden  Pipes  flame  in  the  light 
of  evening.  Far  beneath  in  the  valley  the  water  ran 
lightly  on,  but  there  came  no  sound  from  it,  none  from 
anywhere ;  only  a  general  pervasive  murmur  quieting 
to  the  heart. 

Now  they  heard  a  note  come  from  the  organ — a  soft 
low  sound  that  seemed  to  rise  out  of  the  good  earth 


IING 

person 
to  ride, 
s  as  he 

do.  A 
le  with- 
•fty  and 
jar — the 

ed  stool 
lyed  his 
ind  each 
y  tender 
as  come 
:  Golden 
ic  world 
ubal  and 
e  sons  of 

with  the 
e  in  the 
IS  doing : 
he  word 
J  evening 

day  was 

y  did  not 
lie  mossy 
:he  heavy 
the  light 
water  ran 
lone  from 
•  quieting 

an — a  soft 
ood  earth 


THE   GOLDEN   PIPES 


319 


and  mingle  with  the  vibrant  air,  the  song  of  birds,  the 
whisper  of  trees,  and  the  murmuring  water.  Then 
came  another,  and  another  note,  then  chords,  and 
chords  upon  these,  and  by-and-by  rolling  tides  of 
melody,  until,  as  it  seemed  to  the  listeners,  the  air 
ached  with  the  incomparable  song;  and  men  and 
women  wept,  and  children  hid  their  heads  in  the  laps 
of  their  mothers,  and  young  men  and  maidens  dreamed 
dreams  never  to  be  forgotten.  For  one  short  hour  the 
music  went  on,  then  twilight  came.  Presently  the 
sounds  grew  fainter,  and  exquisitely  painful,  and  now 
a  low  sob  seemed  to  pass  through  all  the  heart  of  the 
organ,  and  then  silence  fell,  and  in  the  sacred  pause, 
Hepnon  came  out  among  them  all,  pale  and  desolate. 
He  looked  at  them  a  minute  most  sadly,  and  then  lifting 
up  his  arms  towards  the  Golden  Pipes,  now  hidden 
in  the  dusk,  he  cried  low  and  brokenly : 

''  Oh  my  God,  give  me  back  my  dream !  " 

Then  his  crutch  seemed  to  give  way  beneath  him, 
and  he  sank  upon  the    ground,  faint  and  gasping. 

They  raised  him  up,  and  women  and  men  whispered 
in  his  ear : 

"  Ah,  the  beautiful,  beautiful  music,  Hepnon !  " 

But  he  only  said : 

"  Oh  my  God,  Oh  my  God,  give  me  back  my 
dream '  " 

When  he  had  said  it  thrice,  he  turned  his  face  to 
where  his  organ  was  in  the  cedar-house,  and  then  his 
eyes  closed,  and  he  fell  asleep.  And  they  could  not 
wake  him.  But  at  sunrise  the  next  morning  a  shiver 
passed  through  him,  and  then  a  cold  quiet  stole  over 
him,  and  Hepnon  and  the  music  of  the  Golden  Pipes 
departed  from  the  Voshti  Hills,  and  came  again  no 
more. 


THE   GUARDIAN   OF   THE   FIRE 


''''Height  unto  height  answer eth  knowledge.'* 

HIS  was  the  first  watch,  the  farthest  fire,  for  Shak- 
non  Hill  towered  above  the  great  gulf,  and 
looked  back  also  over  thirty  leagues  of  country  towards 
the  great  city.  There  came  a  time  again  when  all  the 
land  was  threatened.  From  sovereign  lands  far  oil, 
two  fleets  were  sailing  hard  to  reach  the  wide  basin 
before  the  walled  city,  the  one  to  save,  the  other  to  de- 
stroy. If  Tinoir,  the  Guardian  of  the  Fire,  should  sight 
the  destroying  fleet,  he  must  light  two  fires  on  Shaknon 
Hill,  and  then,  at  the  edge  of  the  wide  basin,  in  a 
treacherous  channel,  the  people  would  send  out  fire- 
rafts  to  burn  the  ships  of  the  foe.  Five  times  in  the 
past  had  Tinoir  been  the  Guardian  of  the  Fire,  and 
five  times  had  the  people  praised  him ;  but  praise  and 
his  scanty  wage  were  all  he  got. 

The  hut  in  which  he  lived  with  his  wife  on  another 
hill,  ten  miles  from  Shaknon,  had  but  two  rooms,  and 
their  little  farm  and  the  garden  gave  them  only  enough 
to  live,  no  more.  Elsewhere  there  was  good  land  in 
abundance,  but  it  had  been  said  years  ago  to  Tinoir  by 
the  great  men,  that  he  should  live  not  far  from  Shak- 
non, so  that  in  times  of  peril  he  might  guard  the  fire, 
and  be  the  sentinel  for  all  the  people.  Perhaps  Tinoir 
was  too  dull  to  see  that  he  was  giving  all  and  getting 
naught;  that  while  he  waited  and  watched  he  was 
always  poor,  and  also  was  getting  old.    There  was  no 


THE   GUARDIAN    OF   THE   FIRE      321 


Shak- 
f,  and 

owards 
all  the 

far  off, 

2  basin 
r  to  de- 
Id  sight 
laknon 
n,  in  a 
Hit  fire- 
5  in  the 
re,  and 
lise  and 

another 
ms,  and 
enough 
land  in 
inoir  by 
1  Shak- 
the  fire, 

3  Tinoir 
getting 
he  was 
was  no 


house  or  home  within  fifty  miles  of  them,  and  only 
now  and  then  some  wandering  Indians  lifted  the  latch, 
and  drew  in  beside  their  hearth,  or  a  good  priest  with 
a  soul  of  love  for  others,  came  and  said  Mass  in  the 
room  where  a  little  Calvary  had  been  put  up.  Two 
children  had  come  and  gone,  and  Tinoir  and  Dalice 
had  dug  their  graves  and  put  them  in  a  warm  nest  of 
maple  leaves,  and  afterwards  lived  upon  the  memories 
of  them.  But  after  these  two,  children  came  no  more ; 
and  Tinoir  and  Dalice  grew  close  and  closer  to  each 
other,  coming  to  look  alike  in  face,  as  they  had  long 
been  alike  in  mind  and  feeling.  None  ever  lived  nearer 
to  nature  than  they,  and  wild  things  grew  to  be  their 
friends  ;  so  that  you  might  see  Dalice  at  her  door,  toss- 
ing crumbs  with  one  hand  to  birds,  and  with  the  other 
bits  of  meat  to  foxes,  martins,  and  wild  dogs,  that  came 
and  went  unharmed  by  them.  Tinoir  shot  no  wild 
animals  for  profit — only  for  food  and  for  skins  and  furs 
to  wear.  Because  of  this  he  was  laughed  at  by  all 
who  knew,  save  the  priest  of  St.  Sulpice,  who,  on 
Easter  Day,  when  the  little  man  came  yearly  to  Mass 
over  two  hundred  miles  of  country,  praised  him  to  his 
people  and  made  much  of  him,  though  Tinoir  was  not 
vain  enough  to  see  it. 

When  word  came  down  the  river,  and  up  over  the 
hills  to  Tinoir  that  war  was  come  and  that  he  must  go 
to  watch  for  the  hostile  fleet  and  for  the  friendly  fleet 
as  well,  he  made  no  murmur,  though  i;  was  the  time 
of  harvest,  and  Dalice  had  had  a  sickness  from  which 
she  was  not  yet  recovered. 

"Go,  my  Tinoir,"  said  Dalice,  with  a  little  smile," 
"  and  I  will  reap  the  grain.     If  your  eyes  are  sharp  you 
shall  see  my  bright  sickle  moving  in  the  sun." 

"  There  is  the  churning  of  the  milk  too,  Dalice, 

21 


» 


322   THE  LANE  THAT  HAD  NO  TURNING 


answered  Tinoir ;  "  you  are  not  strong,  and  sometimes 
th'"  butter  comes  slow;  and  there's  tlie  milking  also." 

*'  Strength  is  coming  to  me  fast,  Tinoir,"  she  said, 
and  drew  herself  up ;  but  her  dress  lay  almost  flat  on 
hcT  bosom.  Tinoir  took  her  arm  and  felt  it  above  the 
elbow. 

"  It  is  like  the  muscle  of  a  little  child,"  he  said. 

"  But  I  will  drink  those  bottles  of  red  wine  the 
Governor  sent  the  last  time  you  watched  the  fire  on 
Shaknon,"  she  said,  brightening  up,  and  trying  to 
cheer  him. 

He  nodded,  for  he  saw  what  she  was  trying  to  do, 
and  said  :  "  And  a  little  of  the  gentian  and  orange  root 
three  times  a  day — eh,  Dalice  ?  " 

After  arranging  for  certain  signs,  by  little  fires, 
which  they  were  to  light  upon  the  hills  and  so  speak 
with  each  other,  they  said,  "  Good  day,  Dalice,"  and 
"  Good  day,  Tinoir,"  drank  a  glass  of  the  red  wine,  and 
added,  "  Thank  the  good  God ;  "  then  Tinoir  wiped 
his  mouth  with  his  sleeve,  and  went  away,  leaving 
Dalice  with  a  broken  glass  at  her  feet,  and  a  look  in 
her  eyes  which  it  is  well  that  Tinoir  did  not  see. 

But  as  he  went  he  was  thinking  how,  the  night 
before,  Dalice  had  lain  with  her  arm  round  his  neck 
hour  after  hour  as  she  slept,  as  she  did  before  they  ever 
had  a  child ;  and  that  even  in  her  sleep,  she  kissed  him 
as  she  used  to  kiss  him  before  he  brought  her  away 
from  the  parish  of  Ste.  Genevieve  to  be  his  wif'i.  And 
the  more  he  thought  about  it  th*^  happier  he  became, 
and  more  ihan  once  he  stopped  and  shook  his  head  in 
pleased  retrospection.  And  Dalice  thought  of  it  too 
as  she  hung  over  the  churn,  her  face  drawn  and  tired 
and  shining  with  sweat ;  and  she  shook  her  head,  and 
tears  came  into  her  eyes,  for  she  saw  further  into  things 


THE   GUARDIAN    OF   THE   FIRE      323 


than  Tinoir.  And  once  as  she  passed  his  coat  on  the 
wall,  she  rubbed  it  softly  with  her  hand,  as  she  migiit 
his  curly  head  when  he  lay  beside  her. 

From  Shaknon  Tinoir  watched,  but  of  course,  he 
could  never  see  her  bright  sickle  shining,  and  he  could 
not  know  whether  her  dress  still  hung  loose  upon  her 
breast,  or  whether  the  flesh  of  her  arms  was  still  like  a 
child's.  If  all  was  well  with  Dalice  a  little  fire  should 
be  lighted  at  the  house  door  just  at  the  going  down  of 
the  sun,  and  it  should  be  at  once  put  out.  If  she  were 
ill,  a  fire  should  be  lit  and  then  put  out  two  hours  after 
sundown.  If  she  should  be  ill  beyond  any  help,  this 
fire  should  burn  on  till  it  went  out. 

Day  after  day  Tinoir,  as  he  watched  for  the  coming 
fleet,  saw  the  fire  lit  at  sundown  and  then  put  out. 
But  one  night  the  fire  did  not  come  till  two  hours  after 
sundown,  and  it  was  put  out  at  once.  He  fretted 
much,  and  he  prayed  that  Dalice  might  be  better,  and 
he  kept  to  his  post,  looking  for  the  fleet  of  the  foe. 
Evening  after  evening  was  this  other  fire  lighted  and 
then  put  out  at  once,  and  a  great  longing  came  to  him 
to  leave  this  guarding  of  the  fire,  and  go  to  her — "  For 
half  a  day,"  he  said — "  just  for  half  a  day."  But  in 
that  half  day  the  fleet  might  pass,  and  then  it  would 
be  said  that  Tinoir  had  betrayed  his  country.  At  last 
sleep  left  him  and  he  fought  a  demon  night  and  day, 
and  always  he  remembered  Dalice's  arm  about  his 
neck,  and  her  kisses  that  last  night  they  were  together. 
Twice  he  started  away  from  his  post  to  go  to  her,  but 
before  he  had  gone  a  hundred  paces  he  came  back. 

At  last  one  afternoon  he  saw  ships,  not  far  oflf, 
rounding  the  great  cape  in  the  gulf,  and  after  a  time,  at 
sunset,  he  knew  by  their  shape  it  was  the  fleet  of  the 
foe,  and  so  he  lighted  his  great  fires,  and  they  were 


324   THE  LANE  THAT  HAD  NO  TURNING 


^■•■^ 


answered  leagues  awa.y  towards  the  city  by  another 
beacon. 

Two  hours  after  sunset  of  this  day  the  fire  in  front 
of  Tinoir's  home  was  Hghted,  and  was  not  put  out,  and 
Tinoir  sat  and  watched  it  till  it  died  away.  So  he  lay 
in  the  light  of  his  own  great  war-fire  till  morning,  for 
he  could  not  travel  at  night,  and  then,  his  duty  over,  he 
went  back  to  his  home.  He  found  Dalice  lying  beside 
the  ashes  of  her  fire,  past  hearing  all  he  said  in  her 
ear,  unheeding  the  kiss  he  set  upon  her  lips. 

Two  nights  afterwards,  coming  back  from  laying 
her  beside  her  children,  he  saw  a  great  light  in  the  sky 
towards  the  city,  as  of  a  huge  fire.  When  the  courier 
came  to  him  bearing  the  Governor's  message  and  the 
praise  of  the  people,  and  told  of  the  enemy's  fleet 
destroyed  by  the  fire-rafts,  he  stared  at  the  man,  then 
turned  his  head  to  a  place  where  a  pine  cross  showed 
against  the  green  grass,  and  said: 

"  Dalice — my  wife — is  dead." 

**  You  have  saved  your  country,  Tinoir,"  answered 
the  couner  kindly. 

"  What  is  that  to  me ! "  he  said,  and  fondled  the 
rosary  Dalice  used  to  carry  when  she  lived;  and  he 
would  speak  to  the  man  no  more. 


<^ 


NING 
'  another 

!  in  front 
;  out,  and 
5o  he  lay 
•ning,  for 
{  over,  he 
iig  beside 
id  in  her 

m  laying 
n  the  sky 
le  courier 
e  and  the 
Tiy's  fleet 
nan,  then 
;s  showed 

answered 

idled  the 
;  and  he 


BY  THAT  PLACE  CALLED 

VENTURE 


PERAD- 


BY  that  place  called  Peradventure  in  the  Voshti 
Hills  dwelt  Golgothar  the  strong  tnan,  who,  it 
was  said,  could  break  an  iron  pot  with  a  blow,  or  pull 
a  tall  sapling  from  the  ground. 

**  If  I  had  a  hundred  men  so  strong,"  said  Golgothar, 
**  I  would  go  and  conquer  Nooni  the  city  of  our  foes." 

Because  he  had  not  the  hundred  men  he  did  not  go, 
and  Nooni  still  sent  insults  to  the  country  of  Golgo- 
thar, and  none  could  travel  safe  between  the  capitals. 
And  Golgothar  was  sorry. 

"  If  I  had  a  hundred  men  so  strong,"  said  Golgothar, 
"  I  would  build  a  dyke  to  keep  the  floods  back  from 
the  people  crowded  on  the  lowlands." 

Because  he  had  not  the  hundred  men,  now  and  again 
the  floods  came  down,  and  swept  the  poor  folk  out  to 
sea,  or  laid  low  their  habitations.  And  Golgothar 
pitied  them. 

"  If  I  had  a  hundred  men  so  strong,"  said  Golgo- 
thar, "  I  would  clear  the  wild  boar  from  the  forests, 
that  the  children  should  not  fear  to  play  among  the 
trees." 

Because  he  had  not  the  hundred  men  the  graves  of 
children  multiplied,  and  countless  mothers  sat  by 
empty  beds  and  mourned.  And  Golgothar  put  his 
head  between  his  knees  in  trouble  for  them. 

"  If  I  had  a  hundred  men  so  strong,"  said  Golgo- 
thar, "  I  would  with  great  stones  mend  the  broken 


326    THE  LANE  THAT  HAD  NO  TURNING 


pier,  and  the  bridge  between  the  islands  should  not 
fall." 

Because  he  had  not  the  hundred  men,  at  last  the 
bridge  gave  way,  and  a  legion  of  the  King's  army  were 
carried  to  the  v/hirlpool,  where  they  fought  in  vain. 
And  Golgothar  made  a  feast  of  remembrance  to  them, 
and  tears  dripped  on  his  beard  when  he  said,  "  Hail  and 
Farewell !  " 

"  If  I  had  a  hundred  men  so  strong,"  said  Golgo- 
thar, "  I  would  go  against  the  walls  of  chains  our  rebels 
built,  and  break  them  one  by  one." 

Because  he  had  not  the  hundred  men,  the  chain 
walls  blocked  the  only  pass  between  the  hills,  and  so 
cut  in  two  the  kingdom :  and  they  who  pined  for  corn 
went  wanting,  and  they  who  wished  for  fish  went 
hungry.  And  Golgothar,  brooding,  said  his  heart  bled 
for  his  country. 

"  If  I  had  a  hundred  men  so  strong,"  said  Golgo- 
thar. "  I  would  go  among  the  thousand  brigands  of 
Mirnan,  and  bring  again  the  beloved  daughter  of  our 
city." 

Because  he  had  not  the  hundred  men  the  beloved 
lady  languished  in  her  prison,  for  the  brigands  asked  as 
ransom  the  city  of  Talgone  which  they  hated.  And 
Golgothar  carried  in  his  breast  a  stone  image  she  had 
given  him,  and  for  very  grief  let  no  man  speak  her 
name  before  him. 

"  If  I  had  a  hundred  men  so  strong — "  said  Golgo- 
thar, one  day,  standing  on  a  great  point  of  land  and 
looking  down  the  valley. 

As  he  said  it,  he  heard  a  laugh,  and  looking  down 
he  saw  Sapphire,  or  Laugh  of  the  Hills,  as  she  was 
called.  A  long  staflf  of  ironwood  was  in  her  hands, 
with  which  she  jumped  the  dykes  and  streams  and 


aNG  ' 

luld  not 

last  the 
Tiy  were 
in  vain, 
to  them, 
Hail  and 

[  Golgo- 
Lir  rebels 

[le  chain 
,  and  so 
for  corn 
ish  went 
eart  bled 

i  Golgo- 
gands  of 
er  of  our 

beloved 

asked  as 

d.     And 

she  had 

peak  her 

d  Gol  go- 
land  and 

ng  down 
she  was 
sr  hands, 
;ams  and 


PLACE  CALLED  PERADVENTURE  327 

rocky  fissures ;  in  her  breast  were  yellow  roses,  and 
there  was  a  tuft  of  pretty  feathers  in  her  hair.  She 
reached  up  and  touched  him  on  the  breast  with  her 
staff,  then  she  laughed  again,  and  sang  a  snatch  of  song 
in  mockery : 

"  I  am  a  king, 
I  have  no  crown, 
I  have  no  throne  to  sit  in — " 

"  Pull  me  up,  boy,"  she  said.  She  wound  a  leg 
about  the  staff,  and,  taking  hold,  he  drew  her  up  as  if 
she  had  been  a  feather. 

"  If  I  had  a  hundred  mouths  I  would  kiss  you  for 
that,"  she  said,  still  mocking,  "  but  having  only  one 
I'll  give  it  to  the  cat,  and  weep  for  Golgothar." 

"  Silly  jade,"  he  said,  and  turned  towards  his  tent. 

As  they  passed  a  slippery  and  dangerous  place, 
where  was  one  strong  solitary  tree,  she  suddenly  threw 
a  noose  over  him,  drew  it  fast  and  sprang  far  out  over 
the  precipice  into  the  air.  Even  as  she  did  so,  he 
jumped  behind  the  tree,  and  clasped  it,  else  on  the 
slippery  place  he  would  have  gone  over  with  her.  The 
rope  came  taut,  and  presently  he  drew  her  up  again 
to  safety,  and  while  she  laughed  at  him  and  mocked 
him,  he  held  her  tight  under  his  arm,  and  carried  her 
to  his  lodge,  where  he  let  her  go. 

"  Why  did  you  do  it,  devil's  madcap  ?  "  he  said. 

"  Why  didn't  you  wait  for  the  hundred  men  so 
strong?  "  she  laughed.  "  Why  did  you  jump  behind 
the  tree  ? 

*' '  If  I  had  a  hundred  men,  higho, 

I  would  buy  my  corn  for  a  penny  a  gill. 

If  I  had  a  hundred  men  or  so, 

I  would  dig  a  grave  for  the  maid  of  the  hill,  higho  ! '  " 


328    THE  LANE  THAT  HAD  NO  TURNING 

He  did  not  answer  her,  but  stirred  tlie  soup  in  the 
pot  and  tasted  it,  and  hung  a  great  piece  of  meat  over 
the  fire.  Then  he  sat  down,  and  only  once  did  he 
show  anger  as  she  mocked  him,  and  that  was  when 
she  thrust  her  hand  into  his  breast,  took  out  the  Httle 
stone  image,  and  said : 

*'  If  a  little  stone  god  had  a  hundred  hearts, 
Would  a  little  stone  goddess  trust  in  one  ?  " 

Then  she  made  as  if  she  would  throw  it  into  the  fire, 
but  he  caught  her  hand  and  crushed  it,  so  that  she 
cried  out  for  pain  and  anger,  and  said : 

**  Brute  of  iron,  go  break  the  posts  in  the  brigands* 
prison-house,  but  leave  a  poor  girl's  wrist  alone.  If 
I  had  a  hundred  men — "  she  added,  mocking  wildly 
again,  and  then,  springing  at  him,  put  her  two  thumbs 
at  the  corners  of  his  eyes,  and  cried :  "  Stir  a  hand,  and 
out  they  will  come — your  eyes,  for  my  bones !  " 

He  did  not  stir  till  her  fury  was  gone.  Then  he 
made  her  sit  dovv^n  and  eat  with  him,  and  afterwards 
she  said  softly  to  him,  and  without  a  laugh :  "  Why 
should  the  people  say,  *  Golgothar  is  our  shame,  for 
he  has  great  strength,  and  yet  he  does  nothing  but 
throw  great  stones  for  sport  into  the  sea'  ?  " 

He  had  the  simple  mind  of  a  child,  and  he  listened 
to  her  patiently,  and  at  last  got  up  and  began  preparing 
for  a  journey,  cleaning  all  his  weapons,  and  gathering 
them  together.  She  understood  him,  and  she  said, 
with  a  little  laugh  like  music :  "  One  strong  man  is 
better  than  a  hundred — a  little  key  will  open  a  great 
door  easier  than  a  hundred  hammers.  What  is  the 
strength  of  a  hundred  bullo-;ks  without  this?"  she 
added,  tapping  him  on  the  forehead. 


SfING 

p  in  the 
leat  over 
e  did  he 
^as  when 
the  httle 


0  the  fire, 

1  that  she 

brigands* 
alone.  K 
ing  wildly 
vo  thumbs 
hand,  and 
es ! " 

Then  he 
afterwards 
rh :  "  Why 
shame,  for 
othing  but 

he  listened 
n  preparing 
i  gathering 
id  she  said, 
Dng  man  is 
pen  a  great 
A^hat  is  the 
this?"  she 


PLACE  CALLED  PER  AD  VENTURE  329 

Then  they  sat  down  and  talked  together  quietly  for 
a  long  time,  and  at  sunset  she  saw  him  start  away  upon 
great  errands. 

Before  two  years  had  gone,  Nooni,  the  city  of  their 
foes,  was  taken,  the  chain  wall  of  the  rebels  opened 
to  the  fish  and  corn  of  the  poor,  the  children  wandered 
in  the  forest  without  fear  of  wild  boars,  the  dyke  was 
built  to  save  the  people  in  the  lowlands,  and  Golgothar 
carried  to  the  castle  the  King  had  given  him  the 
daughter  of  the  city,  freed  from  Mirnan. 

"  If  Golgothar  had  a  hundred  wives — "  said  a  voice 
to  the  strong  man  as  he  entered  the  castle  gates. 

Looking  up  he  saw  Sapphire.  He  stretched  out  his 
hand  to  her  in  joy  and  friendship. 

" — I  would  not  be  one  of  them,"  she  added  with  a 
mocking  laugh,  as  she  dropped  from  the  wall,  leaped 
the  moat  by  the  help  of  her  staflf,  and  danced  away 
laughing.  There  are  those  who  say,  however,  that 
tears  fell  down  her  cheeks  as  she  laughed. 


THE   SINGING   OF  THE   BEES 


*'  TV  yr  OTHER,  didst  thou  not  say  thy  prayers  last 

IVl      night  ?  " 

"  Twice,  my  child." 

"  Once  before  the  little  shrine,  and  once  beside  my 
bed — is  it  not  so?  " 

"  It  is  so,  my  Fanchon.  What  hast  thou  in  thy 
mind?" 

'*  Thou  didst  pray  that  the  storm  die  in  the  hills, 
and  the  flood  cease,  and  that  my  father  come  before 
it  was  again  the  hour  of  prayer.  It  is  now  the  hour. 
Canst  thou  not  hear  the  storm  and  the  wash  of  the 
flood  ?     And  my  father  does  not  come !  " 

"  My  Fanchon,  God  is  good." 

"  V/hen  thou  wast  asleep,  I  rose  from  my  bed,  and 
in  the  dark  I  kissed  the  feet  of — Him — on  the  little 
Calvary,  and  I  did  not  speak,  but  in  my  heart  I  called." 

"  What  didst  thou  call,  my  child?  " 

"  I  called  to  my  father :  '  Come  back !  come  back ! '  " 

**  Thou  shouldst  have  called  to  God,  my  Fanchon." 

"  I  loved  my  father,  and  I  called  to  him." 

"  Thou  shouldst  love  God." 

"  I  knew  my  father  first.  If  God  loved  thee.  He 
would  answer  thy  prayer.  Dost  thou  not  hear  the 
cracking  oi  the  cedar  trees  and  the  cry  of  the  wolves — 
they  are  afraid.  All  day  and  all  night  the  rain  and 
wind  come  down,  and  the  birds  and  wild  fowl  have  no 
peace.     I  kissed — His  feet,  and  my  throat  was  full  of 


THE   SINGING   OF   THE   BEES 


331 


^ers  last 

jside  my 

1  in  thy 

:he  hills, 
e  before 
he  hour, 
h  of  the 


bed,  and 

the  little 

called." 

back ! '  " 
mchon." 


hee,  He 
hear  the 
solves — 
rain  and 
have  no 
IS  full  of 


tears,  but  I  called  in  my  heart.  Yet  the  storm  and  the 
dark  stay,  and  my  father  does  not  come." 

"  Let  us  be  patient,  my  Fanchon." 

"  He  went  to  guide  the  priest  across  the  hills.  Why 
does  not  God  guide  him  back  ?  " 

'*  My  Fanchon,  let  us  be  patient." 

"  The  priest  was  young,  and  my  father  has  grey 
hair." 

"  Wilt  thou  not  be  patient,  my  child !  " 

"  He  filled  the  knapsack  of  the  priest  with  food 
better  than  his  own,  and — thou  didst  not  see  it — put 
money  in  his  hand." 

"  My  own,  the  storm  may  pass." 

"  He  told  the  priest  to  think  upon  our  home  as  a 
little  nest  God  set  up  here  for  such  as  he." 

"  There  are  places  of  shelter  in  the  hills  for  thy 
father,  my  Fanchon." 

"  And  when  the  priest  prayed,  '  That  Thou  mayst 
bring  us  safely  to  this  place  where  we  would  go,'  my 
father  said  so  softly,  *lVe  beseech  Thee  to  hear  us, 
good  Lord!''' 

"  My  Fanchon,  thy  father  hath  gone  this  trail  many 
times." 

"  The  prayer  was  for  the  out-trail,  not  the  in-trail, 
my  mother." 

"  Nay,  I  do  not  understand  thee." 

"  A  swarm  of  bees  came  singing  through  the  room 
last  night,  my  mother.  It  was  dark  and  I  could  not 
see,  but  there  was  a  sweet  smell,  and  I  heard  the 
.voices." 

"  My  child,  thou  art  tired  with  watching,  and  thy 
mind  is  full  of  fancies.     Thou  must  sleep." 

''  I  am  tired  of  watching.  Through  the  singing  of  the 
bees  as  they  passed  over  my  bed,  I  heard  my  father'i 


332    THE  LANE  THAT  HAD  NO  TURNING 

voice.  I  could  not  hear  the  words,  they  seemed  so  far 
away,  Hke  the  voices  of  the  bees ;  and  I  did  not  cry  out, 
for  the  tears  were  in  my  throat.  After  a  moment  the 
room  was  so  still  that  it  made  my  heart  ache." 

"  Oh,  my  Fanchon^  my  child,  thou  dost  break  my 
heart !     Dost  thou  not  know  the  holy  words  ? — 

''^  And  their  souls  do  pass  like  singing  bfes,  where  no 
man  may  follow.  These  ure  they  whom  God  gat  her eth 
out  of  the  whirlwind  and  the  desert,  and  bringeth  home 
in  a  goodly  svjarm. 

Nijjht  drew  close  to  the  earth,  and  as  suddenly  as  a 
sluice-gate  drops  and  holds  bark  a  flood,  the  storm 
ceased.  Along  the  crest  of  the  hills  there  slowly  grew 
a  line  of  light,  and  then  the  serene  moon  came  up  and 
on,  persistent  to  give  the  earth  love  where  it  had  had 
punishment.  Divers  flocks  of  clouds,  camp-followers 
of  the  storm,  could  not  abash  her.  But  once  she  drew 
shrinking  back  behind  a  slow  troop  of  them,  for  down 
at  the  bottom  of  a  gorge  lay  a  mountaineer,  face  up- 
ward and  unmoving,  as  he  had  lain  since  a  rock  loos- 
ened beneath  him,  and  the  depths  swallowed  him.  If 
he  had  had  ears  to  hear,  he  would  have  answered  ihe 
soft,  bitter  cries  which  rose  from  a  hut  on  the  Voshti 
Hills  above  him : 

"  Michel,  Michel,  art  thou  gone  ^  " 

"  Come  back,  oh,  my  father^  come  back  1 " 

But  perhaps  it  did  avail  that  there  were  lighted 
candles  before  a  little  shrine,  and  that  a  mother,  in  her 
darkness,  kissed  the  feet  of  One  on  a  Calvary 


sJING 


ed  so  far 

cry  out, 

nent  the 
> 

reak  my 


THERE  WAS  A   LITTLE   CITY 


where  no 
"■athereth 
•etk  home 


enly  as  a 
le  storm 
Arly  grew 
e  up  and 

had  had 
followers 
she  drew 
for  down 

face  up- 
3ck  loos- 

him.  If 
;ered  the 
le  Voshti 


£  lighted 
er,  in  her 


IT  lay  between  the  mountains  and  the  sea,  and  a 
river  ran  down  past  it,  carrying  its  good  and  ill 
news  to  a  pacific  shore,  and  out  upon  soft  winds,  travel- 
ling lazily  to  the  scarlet  east.  All  white  and  a  tem- 
pered red,  it  nestled  in  a  valley  with  other  valleys  on 
lower  t^teppes,  which  seemed  as  if  built  by  the  gods, 
that  they  might  travel  easily  from  the  white-topped 
mountains,  Margath,  Shaknon,  and  the  rest,  to  wash 
their  feet  in  the  sea.  In  the  summer  a  hot  but  gracious 
mistiness  softened  the  green  of  the  valleys,  the  varying 
colours  of  the  hills,  the  blue  of  the  river,  the  sharp  out- 
lines of  the  cliffs.  Along  the  high  shelf  of  the  moun- 
tain, mule-trains  travelled  like  a  procession  seen  in 
dreams — slow,  hazy,  graven,  yet  moving,  a  part  of  the 
ancient  hills  themselves ;  upon  the  river  great  rafts, 
manned  with  scarlet-vested  crews,  swerved  and  swam, 
guided  by  the  gigantic  oars  which  needed  five  men  to 
lift  and  sway — argonauts  they  from  the  sweet-smelling 
forerts  to  the  salt-smelling  main.  In  winter  the  little 
city  lay  still  under  a  coverlet  of  pure  white,  with  the 
mists  from  the  river  and  the  great  falls  above  frozen 
upon  the  trees,  clothing  them  as  graciously  as  with 
white  samite,  so  that  far  as  eye  could  see  there  was 
a  h'^avcnly  purity  upon  all,  covering  every  mean  and 
distorted  thing.  There  were  days  when  no  wind 
stirred  anywhere,  and  the  gorgeous  sun  made  the  little 
city  and  all  the  land  roundabout  a  pretty  silver  king- 


334   THE  LANE  THAT  HAD  NO  TURNING 

dom,   where   Oberon   and  his   courtiers   might   have 
danced  and  been  glad. 

Often,  too,  you  could  hear  a  distant  woodcutter's 
axe  make  a  pleasant  song  in  the  air,  p,nd  the  wood- 
cutter himself,  as  the  hickory  and  steel  swung  in  a 
shining  half-circle  to  the  bole  of  balsam,  was  clad  in 
the  bright  livery  of  frost,  his  breath  issuing  in  gray 
smoke  like  life  itself,  mystic  and  peculiar,  man,  axe, 
tree,  and  breath,  one  common  being.  And  when,  by- 
and-by,  the  woodcutter  added  a  song  of  his  own  to  the 
song  his  axe  made,  the  illusion  was  not  lost,  but  rather 
heightened ;  for  it,  too,  was  part  of  the  unassuming 
pride  of  nature,  childlike  in  its  simplicity,  primeval  in 
its  suggestion  and  expression.  The  song  had  a  soft 
monotony,  swinging  backwards  and  forwards  to  the 
waving  axe  like  the  pendulum  of  a  clock.  It  began 
with  a  low  humming,  as  one  could  think  man  made 
before  he  heard  the  Voice  which  taught  him  how  to 
speak.    And  th..  "*  came  the  words : 

"  None  shall  stand  in  the  way  of  the  lord, 
The  lord  of  the  Earth — of  the  rivers  and  trees, 
Of  the  cattle  and  fields  and  vines  ! 
Hew! 

Here  shall  I  build  me  my  cedar  home, 
A  city  with  gates,  a  road  to  the  sea — 
For  I  am  the  lord  of  the  Earth  ! 
Hew  !  Hew  ! 

Hew  and  hc»v,  and  the  sap  of  the  tree 
Shall  be  yours,  and  your  bones  shall  be  strong. 
Shall  be  yours,  and  your  heart  shall  rejoice, 
Shall  be  yours,  c-'nd  the  city  be  yours, 
And  the  key  of  its  gates  be  the  key 
Of  the  home  where  your  little  ones  dw<;ll. 
Hew,  and  be  strong  !    Hew  and  rejoice  ! 
For  man  is  the  lord  of  the  Earth, 
And  God  is  the  Lord  over  all !  " 


aNG 

lit  have 

icutter's 
e  wood- 
ng  in  a 
,  clad  in 
in  gray 
an,  axe, 
hen,  by- 
vn  to  the 
ut  rather 
Lssuming 
meval  in 
ad  a  soft 
Is  to  the 
It  began 
lan  made 
a  how  to 


THERE   WAS   A    LITTLE   CITY 


335 


And  so  long  as  the  Httlc  city  stands  will  this  same 
woodcutter's  name  and  history  stand  also.  He  had 
camped  where  it  stood  now,  when  nothing  was  there 
save  the  wild  duck  in  the  reeds,  the  antelopes  upon  the 
hills,  and  all  manner  of  furred  and  feathered  things ; 
and  it  all  was  his.  He  had  seen  the  yellow  flashes  of 
gold  in  the  stream  called  Pipi,  and  he  had  not  gatiiercd 
it,  for  his  lite  was  simple,  and  he  was  young  enough 
to  cherish  in  his  heart  the  love  of  the  open  world, 
beyond  the  desire  of  cities  and  the  stir  of  the  market- 
place. In  those  days  there  was  not  a  line  in  his  face, 
not  an  angle  in  his  body — all  smoothly  rounded  and 
lithe  and  alert,  like  him  that  was  called  "  the  young 
lion  of  Dedan."  Day  by  day  he  drank  in  the  wisdom 
of  the  hills  and  the  valleys,  and  he  wrote  upon  the 
dried  barks  of  trees  the  thoughts  that  came  as  he  lay 
upon  the  bearskin  in  his  tent,  or  cooled  his  hands  and 
feet,  of  a  hot  summer  day,  in  tl.'e  moist,  sandy  earth, 
and  watched  the  master  of  the  deer  iead  his  cohorts 
down  the  passes  of  the  hills. 

But  by-and-by  mule-trains  began  to  crawl  along  the 
ledges  of  Margath  Mountain,  and  over  Shaknon  came 
adventurers,  and  after  them,  wandering  men  seeking 
a  new  home,  women  and  children  coming  also.  But 
when  these  came  he  had  passed  the  spring-time  of 
his  years,  and  had  grown  fixed  in  the  love  of  the  valley, 
where  his  sole  visitors  had  been  passing  tribes  of 
Indians,  who  knew  hjmmoods  and  trespassed  not  at  all 
on  his  domain.  Ther  adventurers  hungered  for  the 
gold  in  the  rivers,  and  they  made  it  one  long  washing- 
trough,  where  the  disease  that  afflicted  them  passed  on 
from  man  to  man  like  poison  down  a  sewer.  Then  the 
little  city  grew,  and  with  the  search  for  gold  came 
other  seekings  and  findings  and  toilings,  and  men  who 


336   THE  LANE  THAT  HAD  NO  TURNING 

came  as  one  stops  at  an  inn  to  feed,  stayed  to  make 
their  liomc,  and  women  made  the  valley  cheerful, 
and  children  were  born,  and  the  pride  of  the  place 
was  as  fT;-reat  as  that  of  some  village  of  the  crimson 
East,  where  every  man  has  ancestors  to  Mahomet  and 
beyond. 

And  he,  Felion,  who  had  been  lord  and  master  of  the 
valley,  worked  with  them,  but  did  not  seek  for  riches, 
and  more  often  drew  away  into  the  hills  to  find  some 
newer  place  unspoiled  by  man.  But  again  and  again 
he  returned,  for  no  fire  is  like  the  old  fire,  and  no  trail 
like  the  old  trail.  And  at  last  it  seemed  as  if  he  had 
driven  his  tent-peg  in  the  Pipi  Valley  forever ;  for  from 
among  the  women  who  came  he  chose  one  comely 
and  wise  and  kind,  and  for  five  years  the  world  grew 
older,  and  Felion  did  not  know  it.  When  he  danced 
his  little  daughter  on  his  knee,  he  felt  that  he  had 
found  a  new  world. 

But  a  day  came  when  trouble  fell  upon  the  little 
city,  for  of  a  sudden  the  reef  of  gold  was  lost,  and 
the  great  crushing  mills  stood  idle,  and  the  sound  of 
the  hammers  was  stayed.  And  they  came  to  Felion, 
because  in  his  youth  he  had  been  of  the  best  of  the 
schoolmen ;  and  he  got  up  from  his  misery — only  the 
day  before  his  wife  had  taken  a  great  and  lonely 
journey  to  that  Country  which  welcomes,  but  never 
yields  again — and  leaving  his  little  child  behind,  he 
went  down  to  the  mines.  And  in  three  days  they 
found  the  reef  once  more;  for  it  had  curved  like  the 
hook  of  a  sickle,  and  the  first  arc  of  the  yellow  circle 
had  dropped  down  into  the  bowels  of  the  earth. 

And  so  he  saved  the  little  city  from  disaster,  and 
the  people  blessed  him  at  the  moment ;  and  the  years 
went  on. 


NING 


THERE    WAS   A    LITTLE   CITY 


337 


to  make 

cheerful, 

the  place 

crimson 

omet  and 

ter  of  the 
DT  riches, 
ind  some 
ind  again 
d  no  trail 
if  he  had 
;  for  from 
e  comely 
)rld  grew 
le  danced 
it  he  had 

the  little 
lost,  and 
sound  of 
to  Felion, 
est  of  the 
—only  the 
nd  lonely 
but  never 
lehind,  he 
days  they 
d  like  the 
low  circle 
th. 

aster,  and 
the  years 


Then  there  came  a  time  when  the  little  city  was 
threatened  with  a  woeful  Hood,  because  of  a  breaking 
ilume;  but  by  a  simple  and  wise  device  l-Y'lion  stayed 
the  danger. 

And  again  the  people  blessed  him ;  and  the  years 
went  on. 

By-and-by  an  awful  peril  came,  for  two  score  chil- 
dren had  set  a  great  raft  loose  upon  the  river,  and  they 
drifted  down  towards  the  rapids  in  the  sight  of  tlie 
people ;  and  mothers  and  helpless  fathers  wrung  their 
hands,  for  on  the  swift  tide  no  boat  could  reach  them, 
and  none  could  intercept  the  raft.  But  Felion,  seeing, 
ran  out  upon  the  girders  of  a  bridge  that  was  being 
builded,  and  there,  before  them  all,  as  the  raft  passed 
under,  he  let  himself  fall,  breaking  his  leg  as  he 
dropped  among  the  timbers  of  the  fore-part  of  the  raft ; 
for  the  children  were  all  gathered  at  the  back,  where 
the  great  oars  lay  motionless,  one  dragging  in  the 
water  behind,  Felion  drew  himself  over  to  the  huge 
oar,  and  with  the  strength  of  five  men,  while  the  people 
watched  and  prayed,  he  kept  the  raft  straight  for  the 
great  slide,  else  it  had  gone  over  the  dam  and  been 
lost,  and  all  that  were  thereon.  A  mile  below,  the  raft 
was  brought  to  shore,  and  again  the  people  said  that 
Felion  had  saved  the  little  city  from  disaster. 

And  they  blessed  him  for  the  moment ;  and  the  years 
went  on. 

Felion's  daughter  grew  towards  womanhood,  and 
her  beauty  was  great,  and  she  was  welcome  everywhere 
in  the  valley,  the  people  speaking  well  of  her  for  her 
own  sake.  But  at  last  a  time  came  when  of  the  men 
of  the  valley  one  called,  and  Felion's  daughter  came 
quickly  to  hiru,  and  with  tears  for  her  father  and  smiles 
for  her  husband,  she  left  the  valley  and  journeyed  into 

22 


338    THE  LANE  THAT  HAD  NO  TURNING 


the  east,  having  sworn  to  love  and  cherish  him  while 
she  lived.  And  her  father,  left  solitary,  mourned  for 
her,  and  drew  away  into  a  hill  above  the  valley  in  a 
cedar  house  that  he  built ;  and  having  little  else  to  love, 
loved  the  earth,  and  sky,  and  animals,  and  the  children 
from  the  little  city  when  they  came  his  way.  But  his 
heart  was  sore ;  for  by-and-by  no  letters  came  from  his 
daughter,  and  the  little  city,  having  prospered,  con- 
cerned itself  no  more  with  him.  When  he  came  into 
its  streets  there  were  those  who  laughed,  for  he  was 
very  tall  and  rude,  and  his  grey  hair  hung  loose  on  his 
shoulders,  and  his  dress  was  still  a  hunter's.  They 
had  not  long  remembered  the  time  when  a  grievous 
disease,  like  a  plague,  fell  upon  the  place,  and  people 
died  by  scores,  as  sheep  fall  in  a  murrain.  And  again 
they  had  turned  to  him,  and  he,  because  he  knew  of  a 
miraculous  medicine  got  from  Indian  sachems,  whose 
people  had  suffered  of  his  sickness,  came  into  the 
little  city,  and  by  his  medicines  and  fearless  love  and 
kindness  he  stayed  the  plague. 

And  thus  once  more  he  saved  the  little  citv  from 
disaster,  and  they  blessed  him  for  the  moment ;  and  the 
3'ears  went  on. 

In  time  they  ceased  to  think  of  Felion  at  all,  and  he 
was  left  alone ;  even  the  children  came  no  more  to  visit 
him,  and  he  had  pleasure  only  in  hunting  and  shoot- 
ing and  in  felling  trees,  with  which  he  built  a  high 
stockade  and  a  fine  cedar  house  within  it.  And  all 
the  work  of  this  he  did  with  his  own  hands,  even  to  the 
polishing  of  the  floors  and  the  carved  work  of  the  large 
fireplaces.  Yet  he  never  lived  in  the  house,  nor  in 
any  room  of  it,  and  the  stockade  gate  was  always  shut ; 
and  when  any  people  passed  that  way  they  stared  and 
shrugged  their  shoulders,  and  thought  Felion  mad  or 


WING 

lim  while 

urned  for 

alley  in  a 

se  to  love, 

2  children 

But  his 

t  from  his 

red,  con- 

:ame  into 

)r  he  was 

)se  on  his 

's.    They 

grievotis 

id  people 

^nd  again 

<:new  of  a 

ns,  whose 

into  the 

love  and 

citv  from 
t ;  and  the 

11,  and  he 
re  to  visit 
id  shoot- 
It  a  high 
And  all 
en  to  the 
the  large 
s,  nor  in 
ays  shut ; 
:ared  and 
1  mad  or 


THERE   WAS   A   LITTLE   CITY 


339 


a  fool.  But  he  was  wise  in  his  own  way,  which  was 
not  the  way  of  those  who  had  reason  to  bless  him  for 
ev*^r,  and  vAio  forgot  him,  though  he  had  served  them 
through  so  many  years.  Against  the  little  city  he  had 
an  exceeding  bitterness ;  and  this  grew,  and  had  it 
not  been  that  his  heart  was  kept  young  by  the  love  of 
the  earth,  and  the  beasts  about  him  in  the  hills,  he  must 
needs  have  cursed  the  place  and  died.  But  the  sight  of 
a  bird  in  the  nest  with  her  young,  and  the  smell  of  a 
lair,  and  the  light  of  the  dawn  that  came  out  of  the 
east,  and  the  winds  that  came  up  from  the  sea,  and  the 
hope  that  would  not  die  kept  him  from  being  of  those 
who  love  not  life  for  life's  sake,  be  it  in  ease  or  in  sor- 
row. He  was  of  those  who  find  all  worth  the  doing, 
even  all  worth  the  suffering;  and  so,  though  he 
frowned  and  his  lips  drew  tight  with  anger  when  he 
looked  down  at  the  little  city,  he  felt  that  elsewhere  in 
the  world  there  was  that  which  made  it  worth  the 
saving. 

If  his  daughter  had  been  with  him  he  would  have 
laughed  at  that  which  his  own  hands  had  founded, 
protected,  and  saved.  But  no  word  came  from  her, 
and  laughter  was  never  on  his  lips — only  an  occasional 
smile  when,  perhaps,  he  saw  two  sparrows  fighting,  or 
watched  the  fish  chase  each  other  in  the  river,  or  a  toad, 
too  lazy  to  jump,  walk  stupidly  like  a  convict,  dragging 
his  long,  green  legs  behind  him.  And  when  he  looked 
up  towards  Shaknon  and  Margath,  a  light  came  in  his 
eyes,  for  they  were  wise  and  quiet,  and  watched  the 
world,  and  something  of  their  grandeur  drew  about 
him  like  a  cloak.  As  age  cut  deep  lines  in  his  face  and 
gave  angles  to  his  figure,  a  strange,  settled  dignity 
grew  upon  him,  whether  he  swung  his  axe  by  the 
balsams  or  dressed  the  skins  of  the  animals  he  had 


340   THE  LANE  THAT  HAD  NO  TURNING 

killed,  piling  up  the  pelts  in  a  long  shed  in  the  stockade, 
a  goodly  heritage  for  his  daughter,  if  she  ever  came 
back.  Every  day  at  sunrise  he  walked  to  the  door  of 
his  house  and  looked  eastward  steadily,  and  sometimes 
there  broke  from  his  lips  the  words,  "  My  daughter — 
Malise !  "  Again,  he  would  sit  and  brood  with  his 
chin  in  his  hand,  and  smile,  as  though  remembering 
pleasant  things. 

One  day  at  last,  in  the  full  tide  of  summer,  a  man, 
haggard  and  troubled,  came  to  Felion's  house,  and 
knocked,  and,  getting  no  reply,  waited,  and  whenever 
he  looked  down  at  the  little  city  he  wrung  his  hands, 
and  more  than  once  he  put  them  up  to  his  face  and 
shuddered,  and  again  looked  for  Felion.  Just  when 
the  dusk  was  rolling  down,  Felion  came  back,  and,  see- 
ing the  man,  would  have  passed  him  without  a  word, 
but  that  the  man  stopped  with  an  eager,  sorrowful 
gesture  and  said :  "  The  plague  has  come  upon  us 
again,  and  the  people,  remembering  how  you  healed 
them  long  ago,  beg  you  to  come." 

At  that  Felion  leaned  his  fishing-rod  against  the 
door,  and  answered :  "  What  people  ?  " 

The  other  then  replied :  "  The  people  of  the  little 
city  below,  Felion." 

"  I  do  not  know  your  name,"  was  the  reply ;  "  I 
know  naught  of  you  or  of  your  city." 

"  Are  you  mad?  "  cried  the  man.  "  Do  you  forget 
the  little  city  down  there  ?     Have  you  no  heart  ?  " 

A  strange  smile  passed  over  Felion's  face,  and  he 
answered :  "  When  one  forgets  why  should  the  other 
remember?  " 

He  turned  and  went  into  the  house  and  shut  the 
door,  and  though  the  man  knocked,  the  door  was  not 
opened,  and  he  went  back  angry  and  miserable,  and 


NING 

jtockade, 
ver  came 
i  door  of 
)metimes 
ughter — 
with  his 
jmbering 

,  a  man, 
use,  and 
vhenever 
is  hands, 
face  and 
ist  when 
and,  see- 

a  word, 
orrowful 
upon  us 
u  healed 

linst  the 

the  little 

ply;  "I 

lu  forget 
t?" 

,  and  he 
he  other 

shut  the 
was  not 
ble,  and 


THERE   WAS   A   LITTLE   CITY        341 

the  people  could  not  believe  that  Felion  would  not 
come  to  help  them,  as  he  had  done  all  his  life.  At 
dawn  three  others  came,  and  they  found  Felion  look- 
ing out  towards  the  east,  his  lips  moving  as  though  he 
prayed.  Yet  it  was  no  prayer,  only  a  call,  that  was  on 
his  lips.  They  felt  a  son  of  awe  in  his  presence,  for 
now  he  seemed  as  if  he  had  lived  more  than  a  century, 
so  wise  and  old  was  the  look  of  his  face,  so  wliitc  his 
hair,  so  set  and  distant  his  dignity.  They  begged 
him  to  come,  and,  bringing  his  medicines,  save  the 
people,  for  deatli  was  galloping  through  the  town, 
knocking  at  many  doors. 

"  One  came  to  heal  you,"  he  answered — "  the  young 
man  of  the  schools,  who  wrote  mystic  letters  after  his 
name ;  it  swings  on  a  brass  by  his  door — where  is  he  ?  " 

"  He  is  dead  of  the  plague,"  they  replied,  "  and  the 
other  also  that  came  with  him,  who  iled  before  the 
sickness,  fell  dead  of  it  on  the  roadside,  going  to 
the  sea." 

"  Why  should  I  go  ?  "  he  replied,  and  he  turned 
threateningly  to  his  weapon,  as  if  in  menace  of  their 
presence. 

"  You  have  no  one  to  leave  behind,"  they  answered 
eagerly,  "  and  you  are  old." 

"  Liars !  "  he  rejoined,  "  let  the  little  city  save  itself," 
and  he  wheeled  and  went  into  his  house,  and  they  saw 
that  they  had  erred  in  not  remembering  his  daughter, 
whose  presence  they  had  once  prized.  They  saw  that 
they  had  angered  him  beyond  soothing,  and  they  went 
back  in  grief,  for  two  of  them  had  lost  dear  relatives 
by  the  fell  sickness.  When  they  told  what  had  hap- 
pened, the  people  said :  "  We  will  send  the  women ;  he 
will  listen  to  them — he  had  a  daughter." 

That  afternoon,  when  all  the  hills  lay  still  and  dead. 


342    THE  LANE  THAT  HAD  NO  TURNING 


and  nowhere  did  bird  or  breeze  stir,  the  women  came, 
and  they  found  him  seated  with  his  back  turned  to  the 
town.  He  was  looking  into  the  deep  woods,  into  the 
hot  shadows  of  the  trees. 

"  We  have  come  to  bring  you  to  the  little  city," 
they  said  to  him ;  "  the  sick  grow  in  numbers  every 
hour." 

"  It  is  safe  in  the  hills,"  he  answered,  not  looking  at 
them.     "  Why  do  the  people  stay  in  the  valley  ?  " 

"  Every  man  has  a  friend,  or  a  wife,  or  a  child,  ill  or 
dying,  and  every  woman  has  a  husband,  or  a  child,  or 
a  friend,  or  a  brother.  Cowards  have  fled,  and  many 
of  them  have  fallen  by  the  way." 

"  Last  summer  I  lay  sick  here  many  weeks  and  none 
came  near  me ;  why  should  I  go  to  the  little  city  ?  "  he 
replied  austerely.  "  Four  times  I  saved  it,  and  of  all 
that  I  saved  none  came  to  give  me  water  to  drink,  or 
food  to  eat,  and  I  lay  burning  with  fever,  and  thirsty 
and  hungry — God  of  Heaven,  how  thirsty !  " 

"  We  did  not  know,"  they  answered  humbly ;  "  you 
came  to  us  so  seldom,  we  had  forgotten ; .  we  were 
fools." 

"  I  came  and  went  fifty  years,"  he  answered  bitterly, 
"  and  I  have  forgotten  how  to  rid  the  little  city  of  the 
plague !  " 

At  that  one  of  the  women,  mad  with  anger,  made  as 
if  to  catch  him  by  his  beard,  but  she  forbore,  and 
said :  "  Liar !  the  men  shall  hang  you  to  your  own  roof- 
tree." 

His  eyes  had  a  wild  light,  but  he  waved  his  hand 
quietly,  and  answered :  "  Begone,  and  learn  how  great 
a  sill  is  ingratitude." 

He  turned  away  from  them  gloomily,  and  would 
have  entered  his  home,  but  one  of  the  women,  who 


.NING 


THERE   WAS   A   LITTLE   CITY 


343 


en  came, 
ed  to  the 
,  into  the 

tie  city," 
ers  every 

)oking  at 

lild,  ill  or 

child,  or 

nd  many 

and  none 
;ity?"he 
ind  of  all 
drink,  or 
d  thirsty 

ly ;  "  you 
we  were 

bitterly, 
ty  of  the 

made  as 
ore,  and 
wn  roof- 

lis  hand 
3w  great 

d  would 
en,  who 


was  young,  plucked  his  sleeve,  and  said  sorrowfully: 
"  I  loved  Malise,  your  daughter." 

"  And  forgot  her  and  her  father.  I  am  three  score 
and  ten  years,  and  she  has  been  gone  fifteen,  and  for 
the  first  time  I  see  your  face,"  was  his  scornful  reply. 

She  was  tempted  to  say :  "  I  was  ever  bearing  chil- 
dren and  nursing  them,  and  the  hills  were  hard  to 
climb,  and  my  husband  would  not  go ;  "  but  she  saw 
how  dark  his  look  was,  and  she  hid  her  face  in  her 
hands  and  turned  away  to  follow  after  the  others.  She 
had  five  little  children,  and  her  heart  was  anxious  for 
them  and  her  eyes  full  of  tears. 

Anger  and  remorse  seized  on  the  little  city,  and 
there  were  those  who  would  have  killed  Felion,  but 
others  saw  that  the  old  man  had  been  sorely  wronged 
in  the  past,  and  these  said :  "  Wait  until  the  morrow 
and  we  will  devise  something." 

That  night  a  mule-train  crept  slowly  down  the 
mountain  side  and  entered  the  little  city,  for  no  one 
who  came  with  them  knew  of  the  plague.  The  cara- 
van had  come  from  the  east  across  the  great  plains, 
and  not  from  the  west,  which  was  the  travelled  highway 
to  the  sea.  Among  them  was  a  woman  who  already 
was  ill  of  a  fever,  and  knew  naught  of  what  passed 
round  her.  She  had  with  her  a  beautiful  child;  and 
one  of  the  women  of  the  place  devised  a  thing. 

"  This  woman,"  she  said,  "  does  not  belong  to  the 
little  city,  and  he  can  have  nothing  against  her ;  she  is  a 
stranger.  Let  one  of  us  take  this  beautiful  lad  to  him, 
and  he  shall  ask  Felion  to  come  and  save  his  mother." 

Every  one  approved  the  woman's  wisdom,  and  in 
the  early  morning  she  herself,  with  another,  took  the 
child  and  went  up  the  long  hillside  in  the  gross  heat ; 
and  when  they  came  near  Felion's  house  the  women 


344    THE  LANE  THAT  HAD  NO  TURNING 

stayed  behind,  and  the  child  went  forward,  having  been 
taught  what  to  say  to  the  old  man. 

Felion  sat  just  within  his  doorway,  looking  out  into 
the  sunlight  which  fell  upon  the  red  and  white  walls 
of  the  little  city,  flanked  by  young  orchards,  with  great, 
oozy  meadows  beyond  these,  where  cattle  ate,  knee- 
deep  in  the  lush  grass  and  cool  reed-beds.  Along 
the  riverside,  far  up  on  the  high  banks,  were  the  tall 
couches  of  dead  Indians,  set  on  poles,  their  useless 
weapons  laid  along  the  deerskin  pall.  Down  the  hurry- 
ing river  there  passed  a  raft,  bearing  a  black  flag  on  a 
pole,  and  on  it  were  women  and  children  who  were 
being  taken  down  to  the  sea  from  the  doomed  city. 
These  were  they  who  had  lost  fathers  and  brothers, 
and  now  were  going  out  alone  with  the  shadow  of  the 
plague  over  them,  for  there  was  none  to  say  them  nay. 
The  tall  oarsmen  bent  to  their  task,  and  Felion  felt  his 
blood  beat  faster  when  he  saw  the  huge  oars  swing 
high,  then  drop  and  bend  in  the  water,  as  the  raft 
swung  straight  in  its  course  and  passed  on  safe  through 
the  narrow  slide  into  the  white  rapids  below,  which 
licked  the  long  timbers  as  with  white  tongues,  and 
tossed  spray  upon  the  sad  voyagers.  Felion  remem- 
bered the  day  when  he  left  his  own  child  behind  and 
sprang  from  the  bridge  to  the  raft  whereon  were  the 
children  of  the  little  city,  and  saved  them. 

And  when  he  tried  to  be  angry  now,  the  thought  of 
the  children  as  they  watched  him,  with  his  broken  leg 
striving  against  their  peril,  softened  his  heart.  He 
shook  his  head,  for  suddenly  there  came  to  him  the 
memory  of  a  time,  three-score  years  before,  when  he 
and  the  foundryman's  daughter  had  gone  hunting 
flag-flowers  by  the  little  trout  stream,  of  the  songs 
they  sang  together  at  the  festivals,  oh.   in  her  sweet 


miNG 
ving  been 

^  out  into 
hite  walls 
^ith  great, 
ite,  knee- 
1.  Along 
e  the  tall 
ir  useless 
he  hurry- 
flag  on  a 
vho  were 
med  city, 
brothers, 
Dw  of  the 
:hem  nay. 
)n  felt  his 
irs  swing 
!  the  raft 
;  through 
w,  which 
(•ues,  and 
1  remem- 
hind  and 
were  the 

[ought  of 
oken  leg 
art.     He 

him  the 
when  he 

hunting 
le  songs 
er  sweet 


THERE   WAS   A   LITTLE   CITY        345 

Quaker  garb  and  demure  Quaker  beauty,  he  lithe, 
alert,  and  full  of  the  joy  of  life  and  loving.  As  he  sat 
so,  thinking,  he  wondered  where  she  was,  and  why  he 
should  be  thinking  of  her  now,  facing  the  dreary 
sorrow  of  this  pestilence  and  his  own  anger  and  ven- 
geance. He  nodded  softly  to  the  waving  trees  far 
down  in  the  valley,  for  his  thoughts  had  drifted  on  to 
his  wife  as  he  first  saw  her.  She  was  standing  bare- 
armed  among  the  grapevines  by  a  wall  of  rock,  the 
dew  of  rich  life  on  her  lip  and  forehead,  her  grey  eyes 
swimming  with  a  soft  light ;  and  looking  at  her  he  had 
loved  her  at  once,  as  he  had  loved,  on  the  instant,  the 
little  child  that  came  to  him  later;  as  he  had  loved 
the  girl  into  which  the  child  grew,  till  she  left  him  and 
came  back  no  more.  Why  had  he  never  gone  in 
search  of  her  ? 

He  got  to  his  feet  involuntarily  and  stepped  towards 
the  door,  looking  down  into  the  valley.  As  his  eyes 
rested  on  the  little  city  his  face  grew  dark,  but  his 
eyes  were  troubled  and  presently  grew  bewildered,  for 
out  of  a  green  covert  near  there  stepped  a  pretty  boy, 
who  came  to  him  with  frank,  unabashed  face  and  a 
half-shy  smile. 

Felion  did  not  speak  at  first,  but  stood  looking,  and 
presently  the  child  said :  "  I  have  come  to  fetch  you." 

"  To  fetch  me  where,  little  man  ?  "  asked  Felion,  a 
light  coming  into  his  face,  his  heart  beating  faster. 

"  To  my  mother.     She  is  sick." 

"  Where  is  your  mother?  " 

"  She's  in  the  village  down  there,"  answered  the  boy, 
pointing. 

In  spite  of  himself,  Felion  smiled  in  a  sour  sort  of 
way,  for  the  boy  had  called  the  place  a  village,  and  he 
relished  the  unconscious  irony. 


346   THE  LANE  THAT  HAD  NO  TURNING 


"What  is  the  matter  with  her?"  asked  Felion, 
beckoning-  the  lad  inside. 

Tlie  lad  came  and  stood  in  the  doorway,  gazing 
round  curiously,  while  the  old  man  sat  down  and 
looked  at  him,  moved,  he  knew  not  why. 

The  bright  steel  of  Fe'*oi  's  axe,  «^tanding  in  tho 
corner,  caught  ♦^he  ,  hVb  <  a*  d  held  it.  F,lion  saw, 
and  said:  "What  aru  yrrv.    hinking  of?" 

The  lad  answered :  '  '1"  th*^  ixe.  When  I'm  bigger 
I  will  cut  down  trees  and  builu  a  house,  a  bridge,  and  a 
city.  Aren't  you  coming  quick  to  help  my  mother? 
She  will  die  if  you  don't  come." 

Felion  did  not  answer,  and  fiom  the  trees  without 
two  women  watched  him  anxiously. 

"  Why  should  I  '^ome  ? "  asked  Felion,  curiously. 

"  Because  she's  sick,  and  she's  my  mother." 

"  Why  should  I  do  it  because  she's  your  mother?  " 

"  I  don't  know,"  the  lad  answered,  and  his  brow 
knitted  in  the  attempt  to  think  it  >  it,  "  but  I  like  you.'* 
He  came  and  stood  beside  the  old  man  and  looked 
into  his  face  with  a  pleasant  confidence.  "  If  your 
mother  was  sick,  and  I  could  heal  her,  I  would — I 
know  I  would — I  wouldn't  be  afraid  to  go  down  into 
the  village." 

Here  were  rebuke,  love,  and  impeachment,  all  in 
one,  and  the  old  man  half  started  from  his  seat. 

"  Did  you  think  I  was  afraid  ?  "  he  asked  of  the  boy, 
as  simply  as  might  a  child  of  a  child,  so  near  are  chil- 
dren and  wise  men  in  their  thoughts. 

"  I  knew  ii*  you  didn't  it'd  be  because  you  were 
angry  or  were  afraid,  and  you  didn't  look  angry." 

"  How  does  one  look  when  one  is  angry?  " 

"  Like  my  father." 

"  And  how  does  your  father  look  ?  " 


^fING 

Felion, 

,  gazing 
>wn  and 


J  in  the 
ion  saw, 


n  bigger 
je,  and  a 
mother  ? 

without 

ously. 

other?'' 
lis  brow 
ke  you." 
I  looked 
If  your 
'ould — I 
•wn  into 


t,  all  in 

*  • 

the  boy, 
ire  chil- 


:)u  were 
... »» 


THERE   WAS   A   i^ITTLE   CITY        347 

"  Hy  father's  dead." 

"  .L  'id  he  die  of  the  plague  ?  "  asked  Felion,  laying 
his  hind  on  th'^  lad's  shoulder. 

"  .^Jo,"    aid  the  lad  quickly,  and  shut  his  lips  tight. 

'  Won't  you  tell  me?  "  psked  Felion,  with  a  strange 
inquiditiv^nesr:. 

"  No.  Mother'll  tell  you,  but  I  won't ;  "  and  the 
lad's  eyes  filled  with  tears. 

"  Poor  boy !  poor  boy !  "  said  Felion,  and  his  hand 
tightened  on  the  small  shoulder. 

*'  Don't  be  sorry  for  me ;  be  sorry  for  mother,  please," 
said  the  boy,  and  he  laid  a  hand  on  the  old  man's  knee, 
and  that  touch  went  to  a  heart  long  closed  against  th* 
little  city  below ;  and  Felion  rose  and  said :  "  I  will 
go  with  you  to  your  mother." 

Then  he  went  into  another  room,  and  the  boy  camc 
near  the  axe  and  ran  his  fingers  along  the  bright  steel, 
and  fondled  the  handle,  as  does  a  hunter  the  tried 
weapon  which  has  been  his  through  many  seasons. 
When  the  old  man  came  back  he  said  to  the  boy : 
"  Why  do  you  look  at  the  axe  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know,"  was  the  answer ;  "  maybe  because 
my  mother  used  to  sing  a  song  about  the  woodcutters." 

Without  a  word,  and  thinking  much,  he  stepped  out 
into  the  path  leading  to  the  little  city,  the  lad  holding 
one  hand.  Years  afterwards  men  spoke  with  a  sort 
Oi  awe  or  reverence  of  seeing  the  beautiful  stranger 
lad  leading  old  Felion  into  the  plague-stricken  place, 
and  how,  as  they  passed,  women  threw  themselves  at 
Felion's  feet,  begging  him  to  save  their  loved  ones. 
Arid  a  drunkard  cast  his  arm  round  the  old  man's 
shoulder  and  sputtered  foolish  pleadings  in  his  ear; 
but  Felion  only  waved  them  back  gently,  and  said: 
"  By-and-by,  by-and-by — God  help  us  all !  " 


348   THE  LANE  THAT  HAD  NO  TURNING 

Now  a  fevered  hand  snatched  at  him  from  a  door- 
way, meanings  came  from  everywhere,  and  more  than 
once  he  ahnost  stumbled  over  a  dead  body ;  others 
he  saw  being  carried  away  to  the  graveyard  for  hasty 
burial.  Few  were  the  mourners  that  followed,  and  the 
faces  of  those  who  watched  the  processions  go  by  were 
set  and  drawn.  The  sunlight  and  the  green  trees 
seemed  an  insult  to  the  dead. 

They  passed  into  the  house  where  the  sick  woman 
lay,  and  some  met  him  at  the  door  with  faces  of  joy  and 
meaning;  for  now  they  knew  the  woman  and  would 
have  spoken  to  him  of  her ;  but  he  waved  them  off,  and 
put  his  fingers  upon  his  lips  and  went  where  a  fire 
burned  in  a  kitchen,  and  brewed  his  medicines.  And 
the  ch'ld  entered  the  room  where  his  mother  lay,  and 
presently  he  came  to  the  kitchen  and  said :  "  She  is 
asleep — my  mother." 

The  old  man  looked  down  on  him  a  moment  steadily, 
and  a  look  of  bewilderment  came  into  his  face.  But 
he  turned  away  again  to  the  simmering  pots.  The  boy 
went  to  the  window,  and,  leaning  upon  the  sill,  began 
to  hum  softly  a  sort  of  chant,  while  he  watched  a 
lizard  running  hither  and  thither  in  the  sun.  As  he 
hummed,  the  old  man  listened,  and  presently,  with  his 
medicines  in  his  hands  and  a  half-startled  look,  he 
came  over  to  the  lad. 

"  What  are  you  humming?  "  he  asked. 

The  lad  answered ;  "  A  song  of  the  woodcutters." 

"  Sing  it  again,"  said  Felion. 

The  lad  began  to  sing : 

"  Here  shall  I  build  me  my  cedar  house, 
A  city  with  gates,  a  road  to  the  sea — 
For  I  am  the  lord  of  the  Earth  ! 
Hew!    Hew!" 


NING 


THERE   WAS   A   LITTLE   CITY        349 


a  door- 
lore  than 

;  others 

or  hasty 

,  and  the 

by  were 

en  trees 

:  woman 
t  joy  and 
d  would 
I  off,  and 
re  a  fire 
!s.  And 
lay,  and 
"  She  is 

steadily, 
ce.  But 
The  boy 
1,  began 
Itched  a 
As  he 
with  his 
look,  he 


tters. 


The  old  man  stopped  him.    "  What  is  your  name?  " 

"  My  name  is  Felion,"  answered  the  lad,  and  he  put 
his  face  close  to  the  jug  that  held  the  steaming  tinc- 
tures, but  the  old  man  caught  the  little  chin  in  his  huge 
hand  and  bent  back  the  head,  looking  long  into  the 
lad's  eyes.  At  last  he  caught  little  Felion's  hand  and 
hurried  into  the  other  room,  where  the  woman  lay  in 
a  stupor.  The  old  man  came  quickly  to  her  and  looked 
into  her  face.  Seeing,  he  gave  a  broken  cry  and  said : 
"  Malise,  my  daughter !  Malise !  " 

He  drew  her  to  his  breast,  and  as  he  did  so  he 
groaned  aloud,  for  he  knew  that  inevitable  Death  was 
waiting  for  her  at  the  door.  He  straightened  himself 
up,  clasped  the  child  to  his  breast,  and  said :  "  I,  too, 
am  Felion,  my  little  son." 

And  then  he  set  about  to  defeat  that  dark,  hovering 
Figure  at  the  door. 

For  three  long  hours  he  sat  beside  her,  giving  her 
little  by  little  his  potent  medicines ;  and  now  and  again 
he  stopped  his  mouth  with  his  hand,  lest  he  should  cry 
out ;  and  his  eyes  never  wavered  from  her  face,  not  even 
to  the  boy,  who  lay  asleep  in  the  corner. 

At  last  his  look  relaxed  its  vigilance,  for  a  dewy 
look  passed  over  the  woman's  face,  and  she  opened  her 
eyes  and  saw  him,  and  gave  a  little  cry  of  "  Father !  '* 
and  was  straightway  lost  in  his  arms. 

"  I  have  come  home  to  die,"  she  said. 

"  No,  no,  to  live,"  he  answered  firmly.  "  Why  did 
you  not  send  me  word  all  these  long  years  ?  " 

"  My  husband  was  in  shame,  in  prison,  and  I  in 
sorrow,"  she  answered  sadly.     "  I  could  not." 

"  He  is "  he  paused.     "  He  did  evil  ?  " 

"  He  is  dead,"  she  said.  "  It  is  better  so."  Her 
eyes  wandered  round  the  room  restlessly,  and  then 


350    THE  LANE  THAT  HAD  NO  TURNING 


fixed  upon  the  sleeping  child,  and  a  smile  passed  over 
her  face.     She  pointed  to  the  lad. 

The  old  man  nodded.  "  He  brouj:;;'ht  me  here,"  he 
said  gently.  Then  he  got  to  his  feet.  "  You  must 
sleep  now,"  he  added,  and  he  gave  her  a  cordial.  "  I 
must  go  forth  and  save  the  sick." 

"  Is  it  a  plague?  "  she  asked. 

He  nodded.  "  They  said  you  would  not  come  to 
save  them,"  she  continued  reproachfully.  "  You  came 
to  me  because  I  was  your  Malise,  only  for  that  ?  " 

"  No,  no,"  he  answered ;  "  I  knew  not  who  you  were ; 
I  came  to  save  a  mother  to  her  child." 

"  Thank  God,  my  father,"  she  said. 

With  a  smile  she  hid  her  face  in  the  pillow.  At  last, 
leaving  her  and  the  child  asleep,  old  Felion  went  forth 
into  the  little  city,  and  the  people  flocked  to  him,  and 
for  many  days  he  came  and  went  ceaselessly.  And 
once  more  he  saved  the  city,  and  the  people  blessed 
him ;  and  the  years  go  on. 


THE    FORGE    IN    TPIE    VALLEY 


H 


E  lay  where  he  could  see  her  working  at  the  forge. 
As  she  worked  she  sang : 

"  When  God  was  making  the  world, 

{Swift  is  the  luind  and  wliile  is  the  ftre) 
The  feet  of  his  people  danced  the  stars  ; 
There  was  laughter  and  swinging  bells, 
And  clanging  iron  and  breaking  breath, 
The  hammers  of  heaven  making  the  hills, 
The  vales  on  the  anvil  of  (lod. 

(  Wild  is  the  fire  and  low  is  the  xvind.)  " 


His  eyes  were  shining,  and  his  face  had  a  pale  radi- 
ance from  the  reflected  light,  though  he  lay  in  the 
shadow  where  he  could  watch  her,  while  she  could  not 
see  him.  Now  her  hand  was  upon  the  bellows,  and  the 
low,  white  fire  seethed  hungrily  up,  and  set  its  teeth 
upon  the  iron  she  held;  now  it  turned  the  iron  about 
upon  the  anvil,  and  the  sparks  showered  about  her  very 
softly  and  strangely.  There  was  a  cheerful  gravity  in 
her  motions,  a  high,  fine  look  in  her  face. 

They  two  live^  alone  in  the  solitudes  of  Megalou 
Valley. 

It  was  night  now  and  the  pleasant  gloom  of  the 
valley  was  not  broken  by  any  sound  save  the  hum  of 
the  stream  near  by,  and  the  song,  and  the  ringing  anvil. 
But  into  the  workshop  came  the  moist,  fragrant  smell 
of  the  acacia  and  the  maple,  and  a  long  brown  lizard 


VM 


352    THE  LANE  THAT  HAD  NO  TURNING 

stretched  its  neck  sleepily  across  the  threshold  of  the 
door  -^peniu"'  into  the  valley. 
The  song  went  on: 

"  When  God  had  finished  the  world, 

{^Bright  was  the  firt  and  stveet  7oas  the  xvind) 
Up  from  the  valleys  came  song, 
To  answer  the  morning  stars, 
And  the  hand  of  man  on  the  anvil  rang, 
1 1  is  breath  was  big  in  his  breast,  his  life 
Beat  strong  on  the  walls  of  the  world. 

{Glad  is  the  ivind  and  tail  is  the  Jire.)  " 

He  put  his  hands  to  his  eyes,  and  took  them  away 
again,  as  if  to  make  sure  that  the  song  was  not  a  dream. 
Wonder  grew  upon  his  thin,  bearded  face,  he  ran  his 
fingers  through  his  thick  hair  in  a  dazed  way.  Then 
he  lay  and  looked,  and  a  rich  warm  flush  crept  over 
his  cheek,  and  stayed  there. 

There  was  a  great  gap  in  his  memory. 

The  evening  wore  on.  Once  or  twice  the  woman 
turned  towards  the  room  where  the  man  lay,  and  lis- 
tened— she  could  not  see  his  face  from  where  she  stood. 
At  such  times  he  lay  still,  though  his  heart  beat  quickly, 
like  that  of  an  expectant  child.  His  lips  opened  to 
speak,  but  still  they  remained  silent.  As  yet  he  was 
like  a  returned  traveller  who  does  not  quickly  recog- 
nise old  familiar  things,  and  who  is  struggling  with 
vague  suggestions  and  forgotten  events.  As  time  went 
on,  the  woman  turned  towards  the  doorway  cftener, 
and  shifted  her  position  so  that  she  faced  it,  and  the 
sparks,  flying  up,  lighted  her  face  with  a  wonderful 
irregular  brightness, 

"  Samantha,"  he  sa>d  at  last,  and  his  voice  sounded 
so  strctuge  to  him  that  the  word  quivered  timidly 
towards  her. 


RNING 

old  of  the 


wind) 


:hem  away 
3t  a  dream, 
he  ran  his 
^ay.  Then 
crept  over 


he  woman 
.y,  and  Hs- 

she  stood, 
at  quickly, 

opened  to 
yet  he  was 
kly  recog- 
gling  with 

time  went 
ly  cftener, 
it,  and  the 

wonderful 

:e  sounded 
ed  timidly 


THE   FORGE   IN    THE   VALLEY       355 

She  paused  upon  a  stroke,  and  some  new  note  in 
his  voice  sent  so  sudden  a  thrill  to  her  heart  that  she 
caught  her  breath  with  a  painful  kind  of  joy.  The 
hammer  dropped  upon  the  anvil,  and,  in  a  moment, 
she  stood  in  the  doorway  of  his  room. 

"  Francis,  Francis,"  she  said  in  a  low  whisper. 

He  started  up  from  his  couch  of  skins.  "  Samantha, 
my  wife !  "  he  cried  in  a  strong  proud  voice. 

She  dropped  beside  him  and  caught  his  head,  like  a 
mother,  to  her  shoulder,  and  set  her  warm  lips  on  his 
forehead  and  hair  with  a  kind  of  hunger ;  and  then  he 
drew  her  face  down  and  kissed  her  on  the  lips.  Tears 
hung  at  her  eyes,  and  presently  dropped  on  her  cheeks, 
a  sob  shook  her,  and  then  she  was  still,  her  hands 
grasping  his  shoulders. 

"Have  I  been  ill?"  he  said. 

"  You  have  been  very  ill,  Francis." 

"  Has  it  been  long?  " 

Her  fingers  passed  tenderly  throug,di  his  grizzled 
hair.     "  Too  long,  too  long,  my  husband,"  she  replied. 

"  Is  it  summer  now  ?  " 

*^  Yes,  Francis,  it  is  summer." 

"  Was  it  in  the  spring,  Samantha  ? — Yes,  I  think 
it  was  in  the  spring,"  he  added,  musing. 

"  It  was  in  a  spring." 

"  There  was  snow  still  on  the  mountain-top,  the 
river  was  running  high,  and  wild-fowl  were  gathered 
on  the  island  in  the  lake — yes,  I  remember,  I  think." 

"  And  the  men  were  working  at  the  mine,"  she 
whispered,  her  voice  shaking  a  little,  and  her  eyes 
eagerly  questioning  his  face. 

"  Ah !  the  mine — it  was  the  mine,  Samantha,"  he 
said  abruptly,  his  eyes  flashing  up,  "  I  was  working 
at  the  forge  to  make  a  great  bolt  for  the  machinery. 


:-*'f,*W3^*** 


354   THE  LANE  THAT  HAD  NO  TURNING 


and  someone  forgot  and  set  the  engine  in  motion.  I 
ran  out,  but  it  was  too  late     .     .     .     and  then    .    .    ." 

"  And  then  you  tried  to  save  them,  Francis,  and  you 
were  hurt." 

"  What  month  is  this,  my  wife  ?  " 

"  It  is  December." 

"  And  that  was  in  October?  " 

"  Yes,  in  October." 

"I  have  been  ill  since?     What  happened?" 

"  Many  were  killed,  Francis,  and  you  and  I  came 
away." 

"  Where  are  we  now  ?     I  do  not  know  the  place." 

"  This  is  Megalon  Valley.  You  and  I  live  alone 
here." 

"  Why  did  you  bring  me  here  ?  " 

"  I  did  not  bring  you,  Francis ;  you  wished  me  to 
come.  One  day  you  said  to  me,  *  There  is  a  place  in 
IMegalon  Valley  where,  long  ago,  an  old  man  lived, 
who  had  become  a  stranger  among  men — a  place  where 
the  blackbird  stays,  and  the  wolf-dog  troops  and  hides, 
and  the  damson  grows  as  thick  as  blossoms  on  the 
acacia  tree;  we  will  go  there.'  And  I  came  with 
you." 

"  I  do  not  remember,  my  wife.  What  of  the  mine  ? 
Was  I  a  coward  and  left  the  mine  ?  There  was  no  one 
understood  the  ways  of  the  wheel,  and  rod,  and  steam, 
but  me." 

"  The  mine  is  closed,  Francis,"  she  answ(;red  gently. 
**  You  were  no  coward,  but — but  you  'lad  strange 
fancies." 

"  When  did  the  mine  close  ?  "  he  said  with  a  kind  of 
sorrow ;  "  I  put  hard  work  and  good  years  into  it." 

At  that  moment,  when  her  face  drew  close  to  his,  the 
vision  of  her  as  she  stood  at  the  anvil  came  to  him 


INING 

lotion.     I 
;n    .    .    . 
>,  and  you 


?  " 
id  I  came 

:  place," 
live  alone 


led  me  to 
a  place  in 
liian  lived, 
ace  where 
and  hides, 
lis  on  the 
ame  with 

he  mine? 
ras  no  one 
md  steam, 

ed  gently. 
d   strange 

a  kind  of 
nto  it." 
to  his,  the 
le  to  him 


THE   FORGE   IN   THE   VALLEY       355 

with  a  new  impression,  and  he  said  again  in  a  half- 
frightened  way,  "  When  did  it  close,  Samantha?  " 

"  The  mine  was  jlosed — twelve  years  ago,  my  hus- 
band." 

He  got  to  his  feet  and  clasped  her  to  his  breast.  A 
strength  came  to  him  which  had  eluded  him  twelve 
years,  and  she,  womanlike,  delighted  in  that  strength, 
and,  with  a  great  gladness,  changed  eyes  and  hands 
with  him  ;  keeping  her  soul  still  her  own,  brooding  and 
lofty,  as  is  the  soul  of  every  true  woman,  though,  like 
this  one,  she  labours  at  a  forge,  and  in  a  far,  un- 
tenanted country  is  faithful  friend,  ceaseless  apothecary 
to  a  comrade  with  a  disordered  mind ;  living  on  savage 
meats,  clothing  herself  and  the  other  in  skins,  and, 
with  a  divine  persistence,  keeping  a  cheerful  heart, 
certain  that  the  intelligence  which  was  frightened  from 
its  home  would  come  back  one  day.  It  should  be 
hers  to  watch  for  the  great  moment,  and  give  the  wan- 
derer loving  welcome,  lest  it  should  hurry  madly  away 
again  into  the  desert,  never  to  return. 

She  had  her  reward,  yet  she  wept.  She  had  carried 
herself  before  him  with  the  bright  ways  of  an  unvexed 
girl  these  twelve  years  past ;  she  had  earned  the  salt  of 
her  tears.  He  was  dazed  still,  but,  the  doublet  of  his 
mind  no  longer  unbraced,  he  understood  what  she  had 
been  to  him,  and  how  she  had  tended  him  in  absolute 
loneliness,  her  companions  the  wild  things  of  the 
valley — these  and  God. 

He  drew  her  into  the  workshop,  and  put  his  hand 
upon  the  bellows  and  churned  them,  so  that  the  fire 
roared  joyously  up,  and  the  place  was  red  with  the 
light.  In  this  light  he  turned  her  to  him  and  looked 
at  her.  The  look  was  as  that  of  one  who  had  come 
back  from  the  dead — that  naked,  profound,   uncon- 


356  THE  LANE  THAT  HAD  NO  TURNING 


ditional  gaze  which  is  as  deep  and  honest  as  the  prime- 
val sense.  His  eyes  fell  upon  her  rich,  firm,  stately 
body,  it  lingered  for  a  moment  on  the  brown  fulness 
of  her  hair,  then  her  look  was  gathered  to  his,  and  they 
fell  into  each  other's  arms. 

For  long  they  sat  in  the  solemn  silence  of  their  joy, 
and  so  awed  were  they  by  the  thing  which  had  come  to 
them  that  they  frit  no  surprise  when  a  .wolf-dog  crav/led 
over  the  lizard  on  the  threshold,  and  stole  along  the 
wall  with  shining,  bloody  eyes  to  an  inner  room,  and 
stayed  there  munching  meat  to  surfeit  and  drowsiness, 
and  at  last  crept  out  and  lay  beside  the  forge  in  a  thick 
sleep.  These  two  had  lived  so  much  with  the  untamed 
things  of  nature,  the  bellows  and  the  fire  had  been 
so  long  there,  and  the  clang  of  the  anvil  was  so  familiar, 
that  there  was  a  kinship  among  them,  man  and  beast, 
with  the  woman  as  ruler. 

"  Tell  me,  my  wife,"  he  said  at  last,  "  what  has  hap- 
pened during  these  twelve  years,  all  from  the  first. 
Keep  nothing  back.  I  am  strong  now."  He  looked 
around  the  workshop,  then,  suddenly,  at  her,  with  a 
strange  pain,  and  they  both  turned  their  heads  away 
for  an  instant,  for  the  same  thought  was  on  them. 
Then,  presently,  she  spoke,  and  answered  his  shy,  sor- 
rowful thought  before  all  else.  "  The  child  is  gone," 
she  softly  said. 

He  sat  still,  but  a  sob  was  in  his  throat.  He  looked 
at  her  with  a  kind  of  fear.  He  wondered  if  his  mad- 
ness had  cost  the  life  of  the  child.     She  understood. 

"  Did  I  ever  sec  the  child  ?  "  he  said. 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  sometimes  thought  that  through  the 
b.?be  vou  would  be  yourself  again.  When  you  were 
near  ha'  yon  never  ceased  to  look  at  her  and  fondle  her, 
aF  I  thouo-ht  very  timidl;- ;  and  you  would  start  some- 


I 


RNING 

the  prime- 
rm,  stately 
iwn  fulness 
s,  and  they 

»f  their  joy, 
ad  come  to 
og  crav;led 
:  along  the 

room,  and 
drowsiness, 
s  in  a  thick 
le  untamed 
I  had  been 
so  familiar, 

and  beast, 

at  has  hap- 
1  the  first. 
He  looked 
ler,  with  a 
eads  away 
on  them, 
is  shy,  sor- 
i  is  gone," 

He  looked 
f  his  mad- 
erstood. 

rough  the 
you  were 
fondle  her, 
itart  some- 


THE   FORGE   IN   THE   VALLEY       357 

times  and  gaze  at  me  with  the  old  wise  look  hovering 
at  your  eyes.  But  the  look  did  not  stay.  The  child 
was  fond  of  you,  but  she  faded  and  pined,  and  one  day 
as  you  nursed  her  you  came  to  me  and  said,  *  See,  my 
wife,  the  little  one  will  not  wake.  She  pulled  at  my 
beard  and  said  *'  Daddy,"  and  fell  asleep.'  And  I  took 
her  from  your  arms  .  .  .  There  is  a  chestnut  tree 
near  the  door  of  our  cottage  at  the  mine.  One  night 
you  and  I  buried  her  there ;  but  you  do  not  remember 
her,  do  you  ?  " 

"  My  child !  My  child !  "  he  said,  looking  out  into 
the  night,  and  he  lifted  up  his  arms  and  looked  at 
them.  "  I  held  her  here,  and  still  I  never  held  her ; 
I  fondled  her,  and  yet  I  never  fondled  her ;  I  buried  her. 
yet — to  me — she  never  was  born." 

"  You  have  been  far  away,  Francis ;  you  have  come 
back  home.  I  waited,  and  prayed,  and  worked  with 
you,  and  was  patient  .  .  .  It  is  very  strange,"  she 
continued.  "  In  all  these  twelve  years  you  cannot 
remember  our  past,  though  you  remembered  about 
this  place — the  one  thing,  as  if  God  had  made  it  so — 
and  now  you  cannot  remember  these  twelve  years." 

"  Tell  me  now  of  the  twelve  years,"  he  urged. 

"  It  was  the  same  from  day  to  day.  When  we  cam 
from  the  mountain, we  brought  with  us  the  implement  - 
of  the  forge  upon  a  horse.  Now  and  again  as  we  trav- 
elled we  cut  our  way  through  the  heavy  woods.  Y  i 
were  changed  for  tlie  better  then;  a  dreadful  trot^ble 
seemed  to  have  gone  from  your  face.  There  v  ..-  a 
strong  kind  of  peace  in  the  valley,  and  there  were  so 
many  birds  and  animals,  and  the  smell  of  the  trees  was 
so  fine,  that  we  were  not  lonely,  neither  you  nor  I." 

She  paused,  thinking,  her  eye  ;  looking  out  to  where 
the  Evening  Star  v;as  sailing  slowly  out  of  the  wood;"d 


358    THE  LANE  THAT  HAD  NO  TURNING 


horizon,  his  look  on  her.  In  the  pause  the  wolf-dog 
raised  its  big,  sleepy  eyes  at  them,  then  plunged  its 
head  into  its  paws,  its  wildness  undisturbed  by  their 
presence. 

Presently  the  wife  continued  :  "  At  last  we  reached 
here,  and  here  we  have  lived,  where  no  human  oeing, 
save  one,  has  ever  been.  We  put  up  the  forge,  and  in 
a  little  hill  not  far  away  we  found  coal  for  it.  The  days 
went  on.  It  was  always  summer,  though  there  came 
at  times  a  sharp  frost,  and  covered  the  ground  with 
a  coverlet  of  white.  But  the  birds  were  always  with  us, 
and  the  beasts  were  our  friends.  1  learned  to  love 
even  the  shrill  cry  of  the  reed  hens,  and  the  soft  tap-tap 
of  the  woodpecker  is  the  sweetest  music  to  my  ear 
after  the  song  of  the  anvil.  How  often  have  you  and  I 
stood  here  at  the  anvil,  the  fire  heating  the  iron,  and 
our  hammers  falling  constantly !  Oh,  my  husband,  I 
knew  that  only  here  with  God  and  His  dumb  creatures, 
and  His  wonderful  healing  world,  all  sun,  and  wind, 
and  flowers,  and  blossoming  trees,  working  as  you 
used  to  work,  as  the  urst  of  men  worked,  would  the 
sane  wandering  soul  return  to  you.  The  thought  was 
in  you,  too,  for  you  led  me  here,  and  have  been  patient 
also  in  the  awful  exile  of  your  mind." 

"  I  have  been  as  a  child,  and  not  as  a  man,"  he  said 
gravely.  "  Shall  I  ever  again  be  a  man,  as  I  once  was, 
Samantha  ? " 

**  ^ou  cannot  see  yourself,"  she  said.  "  A  week  ago 
you  fell  ill,  and  since  then  you  have  been  pale  and 
worn ;  but  your  body  has  been,  and  is,  that  of  a  great 
strong  man.  In  the  morning  I  will  take  you  to  a 
spring  in  the  hills,  and  you  shall  see  yourself,  my  hus- 
band." 

"  He  stood  up,  stretched  himself,  went  to  the  door. 


vJING 

volf-dog 
nged  its 
by  their 

reached 
,n  Deing, 
e,  and  in 
rhc  days 
2Te  came 
ind  with 
;  with  us, 

to  love 
ft  tap-tap 
)  my  ear 
^ou  and  I 
iron,  and 
isband,  I 
:reatures, 
nd  wind, 
r  as  you 
^ould  the 
ught  was 
>n  patient 

,"  he  said 
once  was, 

week  ago 
pale  and 
Df  a  great 
you  to  a 
,  my  hus- 

the  door, 


THE   FORGE   IN   THE   VALLEY       359 

and  looked  out  into  the  valley  flooded  with  moonlight. 
He  drew  in  a  great  drauglit  of  air,  and  said,  '*  The 
world !  the  great,  wonderful  world,  where  men  live,  and 
love  work,  and  do  strong  things !  " — he  paused,  and 
turned  with  a  trouble  in  his  face.  "  IVIy  wife,"  he  said, 
"  you  have  lived  with  a  dead  man  twelve  years,  and  I 
have  lost  twelve  years  in  the  world.  I  had  a  great 
thought  once — an  invention — but  now — "  he  hung  his 
head  bitterly. 

She  came  to  him,  and  her  hands  slid  up  along  his 
breast  to  his  shoulders,  and  rested  there ;  and  she  said, 
with  a  glad  smile :  "  Francis,  you  have  lost  nothing. 
The  thing — the  invention — was  all  but  finished  when 
you  fell  ill  a  week  ago.  We  have  worked  at  it  for 
these  twelve  years ;  through  it,  I  think,  you  have  been 
brought  back  to  me.  Come,  there  is  a  little  work  yet 
to  do  upon  it;  "  and  she  drew  him  to  where  ;  ■ir...chine 
of  iron  lay  in  the  corner.  With  a  great  cry  he  lell  upon 
his  knees  beside  it,  and  fondled  it. 

Then  presently,  he  rose,  and  caught  his  wife  to  his 
breast. 

Together,  a  moment  after,  they  stood  beside  the 
anvil.  The  wolf-dog  fled  out  into  the  night  from  the 
shower  of  sparks,  as,  in  the  red  light,  the  two  sang  to 
the  clanging  of  the  hammers : 

"  When  God  was  making  the  world, 

{Sxvift  is  the  wind  and  white  is  the  fire) — " 


R*"-y.f,i^ipi!Sf*f*|^^«5»^i-=^iii 


